


fall from grace

by simplyclockwork



Series: juxtaposition series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Mycroft Holmes, Broken John Watson, Broken Sherlock Holmes, Canon Divergent, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, F/M, Heartbroken John Watson, Heartbroken Sherlock Holmes, High Sherlock, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, John Watson/Mary Morstan - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Married John Watson, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Morstan is Not an Assassin, Medical Trauma, Mental Illness, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nice Mary Morstan, OMC - Bennett, OMC - Locklan, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Panic Attacks, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Slow Burn, Sort of major/minor character death, no season 3 or 4, piningSherlock, sherlock fandom, substance use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 38,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: After Sherlock's suicide, John is left to pick up the pieces of his life. He marries, he has a son, and he never fully recovers from that day outside of Bart's Hospital. Three years later, Sherlock returns from the dead. Is there room for him in John's new life?A story about how much further two men can fall.---------------I originally posted this story on here back in 2011 and had written 9 chapters. I have since edited, updated and resumed the story, so I deleted the old one.I started writing this before season 2 even aired, and have updated some parts to make it compliant up to the end of season 2. Check the end of each chapter for a hashtag, mostly meant as humour to help balance out the angst.





	1. Reduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock steps off the roof, spreading his blood over the pavement, John feels lost. He doesn't know what to do—has no idea how to find logic in senseless loss. He sits on the curb and puts his head between his knees, trying to breathe. Forces deep, level breaths past numb lips. But they come too fast; are too loud and too shallow. They leave him feeling unbalanced and sick, head spinning as his world twists and tilts on its axis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photos and characters are not mine.

It's been thirty-seven hours, fifteen minutes, four, five, six, seven seconds... a lifetime since John last slept. The bags under his eyes are dark and heavy, the skin of his face pale. Hands shaking and trembling, he is dropping things and losing track of time.

Losing it.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Oh god, Sherlock._

The name repeats in his head, spreading over his tongue and pressing into the roof of his mouth. It begins to sound meaningless. Nonsense jumbles out past his lips, caught between sobs and bitter curse words.

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

After Sherlock steps off the roof, spreading his blood over the pavement, John feels lost. He doesn't know what to do—has no idea how to find logic in senseless loss. He sits on the curb and puts his head between his knees, trying to breathe. Forces deep, level breaths past numb lips. But they come too fast; are too loud and too shallow. They leave him feeling unbalanced and sick, head spinning as his world twists and tilts on its axis.

_Vertigo._

He paces, moving across the sitting room in 221B with fixed eyes. From window to sofa, tracing a path of repetition, unable to find relief. His footsteps remind him of longer legs and lighter feet hushing over the carpet. Of a velvet voice, always speaking too fast.

Such a know-it-all. A lovely, horribly _human_ human being.

A machine. The best man he’d ever known.

_Gone._

John sits in their silent flat. Stares into next Tuesday. The days slip by, slogging into months. When he finally does move, it is down the steps of 221B with a half-filled bag slung over his shoulder. His life splits, organized into two categories: Before Sherlock and After Sherlock.

In the first year After Sherlock, John meets a woman. A lovely, smiling woman with a slight curl to her brown hair. Her name is Mary, and she doesn't look at him like he is broken, even though he is. Instead, she looks at him with warm eyes and takes his hand. Holding it with a gentle, unassuming grip, she leads him into life.

In After Sherlock year two, they marry. A simple ceremony, small. Mary's family is all gentle smiles and kind eyes. They welcome John as one of their own, no questions asked. The only people John invites are his sister, Mike Stamford, and Greg Lestrade. He considers inviting Mrs. Hudson, but it’s too much. Too raw and too close. There is no one else.

Harry watches him at the wedding. Stares at her brother as if he might collapse to the floor and shatter to a hundred thousand million pieces. Only Lestrade seems to understand. He stands at John's side as best man, awkward in elegant dress clothes. They both know someone else should have been there in his stead. Would have been, if not for the dreadful unfairness of life, and the long drop from the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital.

Year three After Sherlock brings tiny, trusting fingers that fit around John's. A cherub face smiles from a silver frame on the desk at his job as chief of surgery.

He is fine. At peace. Not happy, but given the circumstances, that’s not entirely unreasonable. He hasn't thought of Afghanistan in almost a year. Rattling gunfire and screaming bullets no longer riddle his head, haunting his nights.

He doesn’t feel whole, but he is healing. He likely will never feel whole again, but every day he gets a little closer to moving on. While there is still a part of him that gapes like an open wound, each year it hurts a little less.

_‘John Watson’_ still sounds incomplete. Will always sound wrong, without the addition of _'and Sherlock Holmes'._

He buys a house for his family. Small, quaint, set in the countryside among brambles and rambling heath. A big backyard, with tall, sturdy trees for climbing, and a tire swing.

It is time to leave that old life behind. The one that ended against unforgiving concrete. The life of a man fresh from the fires of war, who couldn't function without the burn of adrenaline in his veins. Who solved crimes alongside a madman.

It is time to say goodbye to Baker Street and the grinning skull over the fireplace. Goodbye to Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective the world had ever seen. And would never see again.

Goodbye to the perfect team, to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

_Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #GoodbyeSherlockHolmes


	2. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Three years, Sherlock!" John yells down at him, looming over the disgraced detective. "Three _fucking_ years." His voice is too loud, echoing through Sherlock's aching head. "For _three_ years, I thought you were dead. For three years, I wished _I_ was dead. And you let me believe that, Sherlock. You fed me a lie. And I swallowed it right down, didn't I? Always the follower—always letting you string me along." He falls silent, vibrating with anger; with hurt and betrayal. John clenches his hands at his sides, as if struggling not to lash out again.

_John._

John, sitting in an idling car. He is leaning forward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

_'91 Volkswagen Golf. Chipped silver paint, slight dent in left rear door. Burns oil in excessive amounts: exhaust black, blue, smoke, clouds._

Standing in the headlights with his head raised. Staring with no result. Stare harder. Can't he feel it? Can't John feel his eyes, burning into him?

_John. John, I'm here. Look up, John. Look at me._

"John, John, John." He is saying it now, speaking the name out loud. He can't stop repeating himself, something he hates. He raises his voice and steps closer. "John, John—_JOHN."_

John is moving now. He jumps, raising his head. He blinks swollen, red-rimmed eyes and squints, wiping a faint fog off the windshield. John pauses and stares back, a double-take. More staring. His lips form a word—a name.

_Sherlock._

"Sherlock?" There is that familiar voice. A little gruffer, a little older; strained but still familiar. John is stepping out of the car now, coming closer with head cocked and hand raised. His hair is flecked with grey. Streaks of salt among the brown.

Shaking, Sherlock reaches out to touch familiar fingertips. He brushes against broken fingernails and calluses. Soft but rough skin, warmer than his. After trekking up the hillside in the rain, John’s touch sends familiar thrills through his cold body. He grips John’s palms between his; lifts and presses John’s eager fingers to his face.

"Sherlock...?" Disbelief as hands move over his face, gleaning evidence; finding solid, concrete proof.

_It's me, John. I'm here. Sorry, so sorry, I never wanted to leave. I missed you—I miss you still, even now. John, don't let me go, don't leave. John, I'm sorry._

"You're dead." A whisper, and a sweaty palm cupping his cheek. John's hand is shaking; _John _is shaking, his entire frame trembling. Sherlock tilts his head, pressing into the contact between them.

"No."

"Yes, you—but I _saw_ you. Bart’s, the roof, and you—"

Sherlock presses their foreheads together and stills John’s babbling mouth.

"It was all planned." Sherlock brushes his fingers over John’s cheek. "I had to convince everyone I was dead so Moriarty wouldn’t hurt you. To keep you safe." He pauses, looking up and tilting his head to look into John's eyes. "He’s gone now. Moriarty is gone. I watched him put a bullet into his own open mouth." He lifts a hand to hold the back of John's head, palm cradled along the curve of his skull. "You don’t have to worry about him anymore, John—he can't get to you now. Never again."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks, shaking out of Sherlock’s grip and breaking the apparently one-sided moment. "Why did you let me think..." He is shaking his head, voice breaking and trailing off.

"I had no choice, John." Sherlock nods his head, speaking briskly. "Everyone had to believe I was dead. It was the only way to throw Moriarty's men off my trail. Mycroft and I hunted them all down, John. His entire organization, reduced to jail sentences and ashes. It was so easy! With Moriarty gone, it was child's play to pick them off, one by one."

Sherlock’s face is alight with extreme satisfaction. He rubs his hands together, biting his bottom lip as his eyes drop to John, who stumbles and begins to inch away. He moves like someone doubled over by a blow to the stomach, gasping for air with pale lips. "John?" Sherlock reaches out, tension in his face. John bats his hand away. The touch is light and repulsed, which hurts more than if he had used any real force. "...John?"

"I can't believe—why didn't you tell me?" John demands. He is shaking with a violence that makes Sherlock freeze.

"John, I—"

"I don’t want excuses, Sherlock.” John’s harsh voice interrupts him. “I thought…” He looks away, brow furrowed as hurt and anger crease his face. "I thought you were _dead_, Sherlock. And you let me believe that. I don't... I don't understand."

Sherlock's eyes sharpen with understanding. "John, I had no choice. There was no one I could trust. I had to lie-low and forego everyday life. I had to stay hidden, relying only on Mycroft. There was no one we could tell, no one who we could be certain of trusting. We—"

John cuts him off with sharp words, sounding brittle and broken. "You couldn’t trust me?" He asks the question quietly, his eyes on the ground.

Sherlock goes still, feeling cold plunge over him.

_Right. Of course. How could I have—_

John’s trembling voice jars him out of his thoughts. "You could have trusted me, Sherlock. I thought… I thought you did. I guess I...” He pauses, sucking in a shaking breath. John’s tongue flicks out, swiping over his bottom lip as his throat moves in a loud swallow. “I guess I was wrong."

Sherlock steps forward to take John's hand, pressing it to his face with an unsteady grip.

"Of course, John, Of course I trusted you. I _do_ trust you. I—" John's fingers splay over his face, thumb trailing against the curve of a sharp cheekbone, and Sherlock falls silent. The tips of John’s fingers drift across Sherlock's lips. Sherlock lets his mouth fall open, breathes into the contact. John’s brow furrows, eyes focused and cataloguing.

Sherlock lets his own eyes close, opening his mouth a little wider under John’s attentions. His tongue flicks out to meet John's skin, to experience John’s taste. A mix of rain and soap, and aching pain. Sherlock’s lips curve, the beginnings of a smile.

John's fist connects with his face at an angle. His knuckles glance across a cheekbone and stars flash in Sherlock’s now wide-open eyes. He sprawls on his backside and blinks as his mouth opens, silent with shock. He shuts it and presses a palm to his throbbing cheek, looking up at John with a question in his eyes.

"Three years, Sherlock!" John yells down at him, looming over the disgraced detective. "Three _fucking _years." His voice is too loud, echoing through Sherlock's aching head. "For _three years_, I thought you were dead. For three years, I wished _I _was dead. And you let me believe that, Sherlock. You fed me a lie. And I swallowed it right down, didn't I? Always the follower—always letting you string me along." He falls silent, vibrating with anger; with hurt and betrayal. John clenches his hands at his sides, as if struggling not to lash out again.

Sherlock cringes, but makes no move to defend himself against further aggression. Whatever John might do, he deserves it. Sherlock won't deny him his anger. He did not realize how deeply his false suicide would impact John. Never dreamt John’s loyalty went so deep, nearly unshakeable.

Sherlock closes his eyes and waits for John’s violence to fall upon him.

But it never comes. Instead, a hand grabs his, pulling Sherlock to his feet with rough force. John brushes him off and straightens Sherlock’s rumpled clothes. Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at John in wonder. When he lifts a hand and reaches out again, John shoves it away with a shake of his head.

"Don't." John steps back, jamming his hands into the pockets of worn blue jeans. "Just—please don't, alright?" He turns away, angling his body around and walking back to the idling Volkswagen. Sherlock follows him with slow, uncertain steps as John slides into the driver's seat. He waits for John to throw the car into drive and speed out of Sherlock's life in a cloud of oil slick smoke.

But he doesn't. Instead, John shuts off the engine and settles back into the leather seat, staring at his hands.

Sherlock inches closer, reaching out to test the handle of the passenger-side door. Finding it unlocked, he pulls it open and slips inside. Tilting his head, he stares at John and waits for the yelling. He waits for the_'get the hell out of here, Sherlock'_; for the_'I hate you'_; for anything, any words at all.

But John doesn’t speak. Staring at the space illuminated by the headlights, he sits silent and stiff.

Sherlock closes the door and looks at his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #RainSoapPainAching


	3. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't say it." Sherlock snaps, interrupting. "Don't say you're happy. Don't you _dare_. Not to me." His voice shakes, edged with fury. "Not when I can look at you and see it's not true." He raises his head, desperate resignation playing across his face. "You're not whole, John. It's like when I first met you—fresh from Afghanistan and broken. You can hide it from everyone else all you like, but don't you dare try to hide it from me."

"Will you come back?" 

The question shatters the silence and takes John's simmering thoughts with it. He tilts his head and looks at the man beside him, folding long limbs into cracked leather seats. A work of art set on a garbage backdrop. Sherlock's eyes meet his, tracking every thought before John can even voice them. He looks away, severing the connection. Sherlock’s hands, sudden and demanding, grab at his shoulders, trying to turn him back around. 

_ Still needs to know everything. Same Sherlock. _

Nothing has changed. 

_Everything_ has changed.

John pushes the hands away. Let Sherlock guess, for once. Let _him _be the one feeling lost, wondering and grasping at useless straws. See how he likes it. 

"Stop that." John snaps, pushing at the grasping hands. "What are you talking about, 'will I come back'? I'm not the one who left. I'm not the one who _ faked his own death _." He stares out the window, ignoring the eyes boring holes into the side of his head. 

"Will you come back to m—to Baker Street?" Sherlock stammers and hesitates, breaking the sentence structure. John shoots him a look. He tries to tell himself he doesn't care about the waver in Sherlock's voice, and can't quite manage. He smothers the urge to laugh and bites down hard on his tongue, turning to look back out the side window. 

"There are new tenants in the flat now. I told Mycroft to take your stuff away in year—" John swallows, coughing to clear his throat. Memories are such fickle things. "In year two. I didn't see the point in keeping it anymore. I had accepted that...that you were gone." From the corner of his eyes, he sees Sherlock's hand rise and shift towards his own, shaking against his leg. He draws his hand away and tucks it beneath his knee. Sherlock retracts into himself. "Sorry." John adds, uncertain if he's apologizing for the rebuff, or for not keeping Sherlock's things. 

"I know." Sherlock replies. "It doesn't matter." John turns his head and frowns. The hint of a bitter smile twists the corners of the detective's mouth. "You said you went to Mycroft." A slight smirk. "Of course you did." John's frown deepens, tracing creases across his forehead and around his mouth.

"But—there's a man living there. I saw him. He moved in when I went there to help Mycroft pack up your..." He pauses, the lightbulb going off. "Oh." Sherlock nods, studying his hands. 

"Yes. The man is one of Mycroft's assistants. And my things are already back in place—with room for yours, of course." Sherlock peers at him from under lowered lashes, unashamedly demure. "As always." 

John turns his head, and the resurrected man is looking at him with intense eyes. His stare makes John feel like his skin is being stripped away, layer by layer. John shivers, painfully exposed. He had almost forgotten Sherlock's ability to make him feel like every thought in his head was on display. He drops his gaze, breaking the connection. A soft sigh slips from Sherlock's parted lips. 

"John, I understand that you are upset with me—" he begins, and John cuts him off with a harsh, bitter bark of laughter. Sherlock turns his head, eyes wide and strangely vulnerable. That look, alien and unfamiliar on Sherlock's face, makes the laughter die in John's throat. 

"Upset?" He repeats, incredulous. "_Upset_, Sherlock? I know you're not one to waste words, but that doesn't even _begin_ to cover it." 

Sherlock stares at him, his gaze an almost palpable weight. John stares at the steering wheel and scrapes at dirt caught under the crescent of a broken thumb nail. 

"Then _what is_ the right word?" Sherlock asks, soft-voiced. He shifts around, shoulders and knees pointing at John. 

Sucking in a breath, John digs his fingers into his leg. 

_ Broken. Shattered. Abandoned. Any of those, Sherlock, and even they won't fit. Do you have any idea what you've done to me? You were always changing me — pushing me past barriers, limits, social norms. You dragged me up above reality, then let me fall. Without even a warning, or someone to catch me. Didn't even offer a hand to pick me back up afterwards. _

John tilts his head and looks at Sherlock. There is a spark of tenuous hope in the detective's pale eyes. John stares at him, hesitates, and shakes his head. 

_ No. You have no idea at all. _

His head drops, shoulders heavy and chest hollow with aching. 

"Will you?" 

John's head jerks back up at the soft question.

"What?" He snaps, frowning. His voice comes out harsher then intended, and John winces at Sherlock's subtle flinch. But he doesn't apologize. He is not the one at fault here.

"Will you come back with me? To the flat." Sherlock pauses, pulling in a shaking breath. "Please." A longer pause this time. "John." His name emerges as a whisper, a desperate plea on needy lips.

John sighs. Lifting a hand, he smooths it over his face, fingers ruffling through silvered hair.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry—I can't." Sherlock sits up, rigid spine and grabbing hands that grasp John's arm too tight. Desperate fingers dig into the tendons of his forearm.

"John—John, I'm sorry. I really am. Truly, I'm sorry. I should have trusted you. I do, I promise. I have no excuse. John, please." John turns his head. Sherlock's eyes burn bright, threatening to set him ablaze at the first hint of contact. "_Please_. Come back to the flat. We are a team. I cannot work without you." 

"You did fine before—" 

Sherlock cuts him off with a slashing hand, dropped angrily through the air. "No. That was before. And it was different—a lower quality of existence. I cannot go back to that. I need you, John. I am lost without my blogger." 

John pulls away, shock tingling at the tips of his fingers at the familiar words. He lifts his arm, breaking Sherlock's grip. 

"It's not that, Sherlock." He pauses, frowning. "Well, it is, but not_ just_ that." He sighs, and Sherlock grabs his shoulder in a tight, tense iron grip.

"Then what is it, John? What do I have to do to make you come back? To forgive me?" His fingers tighten, pressing into flesh. John hisses, sucking a shallow breath through his teeth as the pressure pushes into the old scar. 

"I said that's not it, Sherlock—" he tries again, but Sherlock’s hands grab both his shoulders now. The detective is turning him in the seat, sharp eyes stealing his gaze. 

“_Tell me.” _A demand. Sudden irritation roils into John's lungs. It burns like acid in his stomach, deepening and darkening into something worse. Something he can't put a name to yet. 

"I got married." He spits the words out, a violent exposition, and shock scrolls across the detective's face. John has managed to startle him—a first for everything. 

He goes on; can't stop. Spite. That is what it is, this dark, creeping feeling in his head, hooking claws into his veins. 

"Her name is Mary. I met her in... in the first year." John clears his throat, shrugging Sherlock's hands off his shoulders. The detective lets go easily. Fingers loose and relaxed with disbelief, his hands settle into his lap. "We have a son. His name is..." John shoots a sideways glance at the man beside him and clears his throat. "Locklan. I wanted to name him after... well, it's close enough, but not the same, you know? Didn't want it to be the same. Not after..." his eyes dart away and he stares out the windshield. Rain slants against the glass. John goes on, the words tripping out past cold lips. There's less spite now. The hurt confusion in Sherlock's eyes has wiped that away. Now the words emerge like water from a burst dam. John can't find the cracks in time to patch up the leak before it spills out as a flood.

"I bought a house. Small, out in the countryside. Nice big backyard, perfect for raising a kid, you know? He's barely walking, smart little thing. Very determined. I think he'll like it, all that space." John pauses. Sherlock is breathing beside him with loud, shallow breaths. The sound fills the inside of the car with tense energy. John clears his throat again and goes on. "I always thought you'd be the Godfather, when I had a kid—if I had a kid. Guess I did, guess you could be. Now that...that you're..." John hears himself rambling. He shuts his mouth over the words, swallowing them like bad medicine.

Sherlock is silent. Staring out the windshield, his hands twist together in his lap, knotted and trembling. John frowns; touches Sherlock's shoulder with light fingers and finds himself shrugged off.

"I didn't know you were coming back," he murmurs, both an apology and an explanation. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. I had to try and move on. If I hadn't..." John pauses, remembering the emptiness that had threatened to consume him after Sherlock's suicide. He shakes his head, coming back to the present. "Whatever we might have had before, whatever might have happened if you'd stayed..." He sighs and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm sorry, but things have changed. I'm—" 

"Don't say it." Sherlock snaps, interrupting. "Don't say you're happy. Don't you _ dare _. Not to me." His voice shakes, edged with fury. "Not when I can look at you and see it's not true." He raises his head, desperate resignation playing across his face. "You're not whole, John. It's like when I first met you—fresh from Afghanistan and broken. You can hide it from everyone else all you like, but don't you dare try to hide it from me."

He grabs the door handle; holds it like a lifeline and pushes open the door.

"Good night, John. Sleep well." 

Slipping out of the car, the door closes hard behind him. Sherlock's tall form melts into the storm, sliding into the rain and disappearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #ViolentExposition


	4. Redundant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a pause, then Mycroft leans forward, hands clasped before him. "Listen, Sherlock. You worked just fine by yourself, before John." Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes dark and narrowed. Mycroft continues despite the look. "While you believe you functioned better with him, you can certainly continue without—" 
> 
> "No." Repeating himself puts him on edge. Continue without John? Impossible. Doesn't Mycroft understand? Before John, he was just Sherlock. Now, in the aftermath of John Watson, he is just Sherlock once more, but it is not the same. 

The rain hits him at a slant; shatters against his skin and shivers away from his body in a hazing aura. Bowed against the wind, Sherlock leans into the growing force. Snagging his hands deep in the pockets of his long coat, he shivers under the torrential downpour. 

_ 'I got married.' _

Married. John. _ Married _. To a woman named Mary. John, with someone else. 

Someone other than him. 

_ Wrong. Wrong, it's wrong. Stop it. John, you're doing it completely wrong. How can you just push me aside? _

Sherlock is angry. The emotion is shocking; a ferocious burn deep in his chest. It hurts, sucking away his breath and making his heart ache. 

Sherlock shrugs deeper into his coat, yanks up the collar, and slogs on. As his feet hit London streets, he catches the swivel of a security camera from the corner of his eye. A humourless twisting of his lips is his only acknowledgement of the occurrence. 

Five minutes later, a long, dark car slides up beside him with wheels like oil slicks from the downpour. The passenger side window starts to roll down; Sherlock flicks his hand out and the vehicle moves on. 

He will walk; shiver and freeze—figuratively drown. God knows he deserves it. 

Pushing the door open to 221B, Sherlock steps inside. He hangs his sodden coat on the banister and leaves it to drip shallow puddles in the entryway. He will likely catch an earful from Mrs. Hudson, but—having just returned from the dead—maybe she'll go easy on him. He barks a laugh, startling himself, and shoves through the door to their flat. 

No—not _their_ flat. Not anymore. 

"Dull." Sherlock mutters under his breath, sweeping inside and halting just past the door. 

Someone is sitting in John's armchair. 

_ John? _

For a second, Sherlock lets himself hope. Imagines a compact man with short hair and blue eyes; warm smile and steady hands. He tries to ignore the logical voice in his head. The one that points out the lack of a chugging Volkswagen outside the flat, and the height difference. 

He lets himself pretend. Almost walks around the chair to collapse into the fantasy. Imagines falling to his knees before John, resting his face in John's lap. John's gentle fingers, combing through his hair, worrying over Sherlock's sodden state. 

He skirts the armrest at the last second, letting reality filter through. Aiming a sigh at his brother, Sherlock drops into a sprawl across the sofa. 

"Mycroft." He mutters, turning his head with narrowed eyes. 

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Sherlock," Mycroft replies. Leaning forward, he slaps a file folder down onto the table. "I have a case for you. At least try and pretend to look a little more grateful." 

Sherlock turns away. Rolling onto his back, he stares at the ceiling. "I'm good, thanks." 

"Really, Sherlock—you can be so dramatic. I need you to—" 

"No." Sherlock replies, speaking louder this time. "No. No more. I'm not doing any more cases." 

There is a pause, then Mycroft leans forward, hands clasped before him. "Listen, Sherlock. You worked just fine by yourself, before John." Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes dark and narrowed. Mycroft continues despite the look. "While you believe you functioned better with him, you can certainly continue without—" 

"No." Repeating himself puts him on edge. Continue without John? Impossible. Doesn't Mycroft understand? Before John, he was just Sherlock. Now, in the aftermath of John Watson, he is just Sherlock once more, but it is not the same. 

Not the same by half. 

John changed him—made him better. John taught him to care, to see beyond the simple pull of the game. Helped him find meaning in The Work, instead of reducing it to nothing more than another high to chase. 

Without John, he is incomplete. Nothing more than a sociopath with no reason to help others beyond his own selfish enjoyment. 

"Sherlock, John will come back. He cannot stay away." Mycroft's reasoning breaks into his thoughts. Standing, Mycroft looks down at his brother like a parent to an errant child. "He is as much an addict to danger and the thrill of the chase as you are."

Sherlock tilts his head, looking back at Mycroft through a haze of dull annoyance. 

"No, Mycroft." He says, voice soft. "Not this time." Sherlock looks away, glowering at the bullet-marked wallpaper. "John has a family now." 

"I know." 

Sherlock's head jerks up and he stares at his brother. Mycroft looks back, calm and unperturbed. 

"That won't stop him." He holds out his hand, offering the folder again. "In the meantime, something to keep you preoccupied." He shakes the folder, ruffling the photos and sheets inside. 

Sherlock is silent, watching him with an empty expression. He lifts his arm, curling his fingers around the edge of the file. Taking it, he flips it open; looks inside, then back to Mycroft. His lips curl back, baring his teeth and matching his brother's smile. 

"I said _ no _." Sherlock lifts the folder above his head; stands and walks to the window. Sliding it open one-handed, he holds the case file like a disk and skips it out into the torrential rain. When he turns back, Mycroft is scowling. His mouth works in a way that suggests he is struggling to keep his patience. 

"Sherlock, those are—" Mycroft glances outside, at the downpour. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he continues. "—_ were _important government documents. You cannot—"

"Don't care." Sherlock cuts in. Dropping back onto the couch, he wraps himself in a sense of disruption and a threadbare blanket. 

"Sherlock, you—" 

"Don't care."

"Sherlock—" 

"_Don't. Care_." 

Silence stretches out. Finally, footsteps as Mycroft crosses the room. 

When Sherlock turns, Mycroft is gone and the flat is empty. The only sound comes from the rain reaching in through the window and pattering against the floor.

Sherlock stands and walks back to the window. His fingers curl on the frame, but he doesn't close it. Instead, he stands in place, letting the rain hit against his chest and stomach as he closes his eyes. 

_ John. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #CaseFileFrisbees


	5. Recollection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharp cheekbones. A proud, aquiline nose over a mouth with the corners turned down in a faint frown or the twitch of a smirk. Dark curls spilling across the pillowcase, darker and thicker. White skin, eyes shifting between gradients of blue, green and grey. Long fingers and slender limbs twined with his. Sherlock's hot breath on his face. Chest to chest, sharing air and warmth in the dark, beneath tangled sheets.
> 
> Could have been that. Could maybe have had that. 

The drive home is slow. Heavy rain slides against the window and John squints through the deluge. Pulling into the driveway, he guides the elderly Volkswagen into the garage. Walking through the house, he hangs his keys on a hook and slips out of his jacket, before trudging upstairs. Pausing in the hall, he peeks into the small room behind the first door. Quiet snores slip from the crib against the far wall. Walking with silent feet over the carpet, John stands beside the crib and looks down at the child. He has Mary's hair--brown and faintly curled--and John's blue eyes.

He smiles, reaching down to lay a hand on his son's warm chest. When he leaves the room, he props the door open on his way back down the hall.

The next room is theirs, lit with dim light from a beside lamp. Mary is already asleep. Given the way she lies across the comforter makes him think she had tried to stay up for him. He often went for late night drives, seeking out a place to sort through his thoughts. Mary knew this, and never questioned his need for space. 

Walking into the room, he sees how her curly hair cascades over the pillow. His chest constricts with sudden pain at a memory of darker hair and sharper features.

John squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Pulling in a low breath, he opens his eyes. Sees no one but his wife, sleeping across the bed. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, John starts pulling off his socks. Mary stirs, mumbling in her sleep, and he guides her to her side of the bed, helping her under the duvet. She nestles into the pillow, already snoring. John sits in silence and listens to the soft, sighing sound of his wife's breathing. In, out; slow and deep; repeat.

He finds himself matching the rhythm in his own breathing. The mimicry slows his heart and dulls his mind. Sighing, he sheds down to his shorts and climbs into bed beside his wife. Turning, he looks at her face and sees another.

Sharp cheekbones. A proud, aquiline nose over a mouth with the corners turned down in a faint frown or the twitch of a smirk. Dark curls spilling across the pillowcase, darker and thicker. White skin, eyes shifting between gradients of blue, green and grey. Long fingers and slender limbs twined with his. Sherlock's hot breath on his face. Chest to chest, sharing air and warmth in the dark, beneath tangled sheets.

Could have been that. Could  maybe have had that.

John sucks in a breath. Letting it out, he hears the shaky, wavering note it carries. He closes his eyes, grinding his cheek against the pillow, and opens them again. 

No one.  Just Mary. 

He sighs again and rolls onto his back. His fingers drift along Mary's shoulder, brushing through her hair. She turns in her sleep, rolling into him. He lets his arm curl around her shoulders, instinctive. 

Feels like it might fit. Feels okay. He doesn't mind settling.

John turns onto his side. Fitting his face against his wife's neck, he prays for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #NewLifeWhoDis


	6. Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words. So many words—always so many. So hard to say. Should have said, would have said, and could have said. Pretty much impossible. Sherlock rubs his cheek against the chamber of the gun, scratching an itch arching across his jawline.

Three weeks.

It's been three weeks since he last saw John Watson. And it's driving him mad.

Sherlock wanders the flat, tripping over stacks of books and solved case files. Half-filled mugs that once held tea now hold things resembling one of his experiments. Empty-barrelled needles and smears of white powder on the tabletop. 

He sits on the floor with his rumpled shirt undone and hanging off his shoulders. He fidgets, scratching at the back of his neck with long legs folded beneath him. Scraping his knuckles on the floor, he studies the mess of papers and sheet music, his nest of chaos. His phone, lying next to the Browning L9A1 handgun, buzzes against the hardwood. Sherlock reaches towards it, stretching past to grab the violin lying beyond.

Sherlock digs the bow out from under a pile of clothes and fits the instrument between chin and shoulder. Shirt still hanging from the crooks of his arms, fluttering against his back, he jumps to his feet. Pacing, he halts at the window and turns to look over the room. He faces the red chair, which he still thinks of as John's. Not the chair. _John's chair._ Closing his eyes, he purses his lips and focuses. Forcing his imagination into overdrive, he pushes a memory into the faded red chair.

_John._

Light brown hair, short and greying. A stern face, hard but kind. Compact soldier. Calm eyes. Bright, expressive eyes—eyes like the sea during a storm.

Emotion. Something that made him tire of others yet kept him fascinated in John.

_Sentiment._

Sherlock places the bow against wire strings. He draws out a long, lingering note, breathing life into the fantasy.

_John. John, I miss you_

John sitting in his chair, a hand on each arm rest, feet solid on the floor. Laugh lines scribbled at the edges of his mouth in his relaxed face. A smile? Yes, but slight, very slight. Eyes closed, his fingers moving with the melody, even slow and mournful as it is.

Sherlock pictures it, his picture perfect John. Inches of skin mapped out from glimpses: John changing shirts. John walking from bathroom to bedroom in nothing but a towel. John washing dishes with his sleeves pushed up.

Every expression, flicker of the eyes, quirk of mouth: mapped and memorized.

_Meretricious._

Sherlock rests his bare shoulders against the windowpane. The chill radiates through the tense muscles of his back as he plays, coaxing maudlin notes from the polished wood and straining strings.

_Come back, John._

He waits and he wishes; imagines and waits.

Before the events that led him to the roof of Bart's Hospital began to unfold, he and John had fallen into routine. A back and forth camaraderie. Pulling laughter from one another as they found enjoyment in each other's company. The ease with which their lives fit together had softened Sherlock's rough edges. John, always having his back. Trusting and believing in him through the onslaught of Moriarty's smear campaign. All the moments he'd found himself caught up by John's stare, lost at sea in blue eyes.

Surely John couldn't stay away forever. Sherlock knows he wouldn't be able to, were the tables turned. But perhaps he's over-estimated John. Perhaps Sherlock is a bit too mad to deserve the love of a good man.

A bit too mad for friends.

_John, I'm sorry._

He strokes the bow down hard over the strings, pulling harsh notes from the instrument. Lifting his arm with a flourish, he threw the long, thin implement across the room. He hears it knock against the wall as it landed somewhere behind the couch. Letting the violin fall to the floor, he followed, long legs crumpling beneath him.

_Please, John. Please._

His phone buzzes again, brushing against his toes. Sherlock grabs at it, snatching the device off the floor. Five unread texts, and now it is making a harsh jingle sound. The ringtone. He flips it open, his lips parting and the name slipping out before he can stop himself: "John?"

Silence on the other end of the line. Then someone clearing their throat, the sound of discomfort.

"Ah, no...it's Lestrade, actually..."

_Right. Lestrade. Of course._

"What do you want."

He doesn't ask, because he doesn't care. Not particularly. No, not at all, after reflection.

It's not John.

And that is bothersome; truly bothersome.

_Stupid John._

"I've got a case—" Sherlock snaps the phone shut, cutting Lestrade off.

"I said I'm done." He mutters, tosses the phone away to join the bow in behind the sofa. "Leave me alone." Wrapping his arms around his legs, he tumbles sideways, head pillowed on a stack of journals.

His eyes home in the gun on the floor. Reaching out, his fingers scrabble against the grip and drags it closer. Curling his fingers around the barrel, Sherlock pulls it closer. Fitting the handle beneath his chin, he stares into the darkening flat with half-open eyes.

Stupid John. Leaving him alone. Getting married and having offspring. Leaving him to lie on the floor, curled up with an old handgun.

_I was going to tell you, John._

Was he so unforgivable? Or is it un-likeable? Unlovable? All three?

_I'm fond of you, John. Terribly, horribly fond._

Words. So many words—always so many. So hard to say. Should have said, would have said, and could have said. Pretty much impossible. Sherlock rubs his cheek against the chamber of the gun, scratching an itch arching across his jawline.

_You knew that, right? Right, John? You knew I cared? Of course you did._

Everything is so...dull. So dull that he can hardly stand it. The gun is scraping against his temple, and there's an itch in his arms. In his fingers and mouth, crawling deep beneath his skin.

_Didn't you?_

His chest hurts. Discomfort. Sherlock rubs a palm over it, pushing his shirt off and under his knees, irritated. The brush of fabric against his skin is distracting. The cold wood flooring feels much better. He squirms a bit, fiddling with the hem of his dress pants but can't quite work up the energy to get them off. He sighs and strokes his pinky finger slowly along the trigger of the Browning.

_John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #DontCuddleGunsKids


	7. Reaching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A door opens, a voice rises above the others, this one lower, deeper. Not the shrill, panicked tone of the nurses. Not the security guards, or the other doctors who have come to assist in the commotion. 
> 
> It's familiar. Striking, like a slap. It's _everything_. Sherlock snaps his eyes open, brushing away the onlookers with rough hands.
> 
> The world narrows—bends and buckles, fixing to a single point. 

Pain. There's pain. And blood. That, too.

Quite a lot.

Sherlock sits up. Blinking blurs from his eyes, he jolts as the gun slips off his chest and clatters against the floor. He weaves, putting his hand down—palm-first—and winces. Pain. More pain. Jesus, that stings; aches and tears; feels a bit not good. He lifts his hand, turns it over and stares.

He's shot himself. In the hand. Not directly—the bullet, embedded in the floor beside his head, grazed across his palm. There's a deep groove leaking blood down and across his wrist. Disoriented, he realize his face feels bruised. Drifting a bleeding hand over his cheek, he discovers a rough ache along one cheekbone. Recoil, like a punch in the face. He looks back to his hand, and the powder burns blackening his fingers. 

Sherlock sighs, struggling to his feet and wandering into the kitchen. Unravelling a roll of paper towel, he lets it hit the floor. Watching it drape its way into the living room, he rips off a handful of squares. Wadding them up, he presses them against his bleeding hand. Red soaks through, and he pulls a face. He'll have to go to surgery.

Unavoidable and dull. 

Stomping down the hall, he pulls on a new shirt one-handed, scowling in frustration. If John were here, he wouldn't have to struggle. Wouldn't have to go to the hospital at all, with his own personal doctor-blogger-soldier to patch him up. 

If John were here, he wouldn't have shot himself in the hand to begin with. 

"Stupid John." Sherlock struggles through three buttons before giving up and shrugging into his coat. Blood soaks through his makeshift paper-towel bandage, dripping onto his feet. Snatching the spilled roll of paper towel off the floor, he lines his pocket with it, shoving his hand in after. He stuffs his feet into shoes and leaves the flat, waving down a cab with his good hand. Giving the cabby the address for the nearest hospital, he glares out the window and bites his lips. 

Stupid John indeed. 

The cab ride to the surgery is long and dull, and they spend far too much time trapped in the constrict of traffic. His hand soaks through the lining of his jacket and his cheek aches. The cab pulls into the parking lot. Sherlock flicks a handful of bills at the cabby and ignores his complaints. 

Turning, he stumbles to the hospital entrance. He wavers and leans his shoulder against a wall. Losing blood is a tiresome process. He rights himself and guides his quivering body inside. He uses his bloody hand for balance on the wall, leaving red smears against everything he touches. 

"Sir?" 

A voice pulls him back, and he swings around, nearly collapsing at the feet of a small, stocky nurse.

_ Tight bun, tense face, obviously very — _

The deduction spirals off course as he stops to press his shoulder against the wall for balance. Blinking and raising his hands, he sways, legs threatening to buckle. 

Florescent lights—much too bright. He covers his eyes and squints against the headache building behind his pupils. 

"Oh my—can I get a hand out here?" The nurse's voice again, calling out in a sharp tone. Sherlock scowls, feeling his injured hand dripping red down his fingers. Shouldn't nurses be calmer? This was what they trained for, was it not? Well, perhaps not for sociopaths who've shot themselves in the hand. But for blood and weakness, and the world slipping away much too fast? 

Hands are grabbing at him. Too many hands, too hard. Pushing and propelling him towards doorways and hospital beds. He protests, pushing back, flicking and dripping red on everything in sight. He makes a scene, feeble mumbles slipping from his lips. 

"Stitches." He manages; brushes away the constricting arms, the groping, grabbing fingers. "Just need... some stitches." 

There's shouting and more pushing. It's too much and deeply exhausting. He's never liked people touching him, and there's too many bloody hands. 

Except, only _his_ hand is bloody. Things are starting to get muddled. Starting to blend and merge. Because there's red on everything now. Staining the walls and floor, the floundering faces, and nothing makes sense. His head is swimming and things are darker at the edges. A disturbing mix of grey and bright, bright florescent lights. 

The world is bleeding. He is bleeding, everyone is bleeding, from eyes and mouths and everywhere, and he wants it to stop. And the _sounds._ He puts his hands over his ears. Shutting his eyes, he tries to drown it all out and suffocate the noise.

A door opens, a voice rises above the others, this one lower, deeper. Not the shrill, panicked tone of the nurses. Not the security guards, or the other doctors who have come to assist in the commotion. 

It's familiar. Striking, like a slap. It's _ everything _. Sherlock snaps his eyes open, brushing away the onlookers with rough hands.

The world narrows—bends and buckles, fixing to a single point. 

Short hair, more grey than brown. A creased face, more kind than hard. Steady hands. Doctor's hands—soldier's hands. 

"What's going on?" 

Blatant confusion answers the question and the voice takes on a stern edge, controlled and calm. 

"There's blood everywhere—what's going on?" 

Sherlock's brain figures it out, sputtering and spitting up an answer. Drops a name in the front of his mind and sets it throbbing against his eyes. Lingering at the back of his throat like a taste. 

_ JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn. _

He's saying it, now, and his voice sounds harsh and raspy—grated raw. 

"John. John." Sherlock lifts his arms, smearing blood, his own shirt, hanging open under his jacket. He smiles and offers up his hand, the one covered in gore and candy-apple red. "_ John _." 

"Doctor Watson?" 

One of the other doctors. He's staring, frowning at the ex-solider. John is standing still and staring as well, but not at the speaker. His eyes are on Sherlock. Fixed on the outstretched hand, the bloodied palm offered like something precious. 

"Doctor Watson, do you know this man?" 

John clears his throat, swallows and keeps his eyes on Sherlock's offering.

"Ah—yes. He's..." There's a terrible pause, stretching out and endless. Sherlock's chest tightens, constricting as he sways closer to collapse. Blood slicks the spaces between his fingers and runs down his wrist, dripping to the floor. John, breathing out, finishes the sentence: "...a friend. An old friend." 

Sherlock's lips curl. He smiles, slow and big and ecstatic. It lights up his face, smoothing out his eyes pinned eyes and constricted pupils.

_ Friend. An old friend. _

The edges of things are beginning to darken, spreading like the corners of burnt paper. The ground seems closer. That's not right. The floor wasn't supposed to shift _toward_ you—you were supposed to fall _to_ it. Everything is backwards and frustrating, but not terribly important, because John is here.

John will take care of it. John will fix it, because that's what John does. John Watson, the doctor; the solider; the Sherlock-fixer-upper. 

_ Friend. _

Sherlock’s vision goes black and the world falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #IdiotsGetStitches


	8. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John, you are the only person he wants. The only one he will open the door to. I do not entirely understand his reasoning behind it, but he has decided he cannot function without you." 

There's a commotion in the hall. When John goes to determine the cause, he is hardly shocked by what he finds.

Because of course it's Sherlock. Because it is _always_ Sherlock. It can never be anyone but, at least not in John Watson's case.

Even when the man was dead to him for three bloody years. Even then, was  still  Sherlock. He is almost one hundred percent sure this is the set way of things. 

Forever and always, amen.

When Sherlock holds out his bloody hand, looking like he has taken a fishing hook to it, that makes sense, too. When the detective smiles; says his name and crumples at his feet, it is nothing new. It seems he is always picking Sherlock back up. Scraping him off the floor; dusting him off and fixing up the broken bits. Not  entirely . Not enough to fix him completely. But enough to keep the clockwork prince running. Moving forward: ticking, ticking.

John shakes himself, snapping back into the present. He waves the attending away. Bending, his hands fit into the crooks of Sherlock's arms, and he pulls him to his feet. The detective weaves, somewhere between awake and not. Sherlock's heavy head rolls against his shoulder as he leans on John. His face is paper-white. 

"I've got him," John murmurs. He waves the nurses doctors back to their posts when they offer help. "Thanks, but he doesn't like to  be touched ."

"But  you're touching him," a voice points out. A true enough observation.

"There's an exception to every fact," John replies. He hears Sherlock in the words and clamps his mouth shut. He half-drags the limp man he once shared a flat with towards an empty room. Shutting the door, he dips the detective onto the bed. John looks down at Sherlock. His eyes flicker beneath dark eyelids. Sighing, John turns away, gathering medical supplies from a cupboard.

Sherlock is turning his head; rolling it side to side and rubbing his cheek against the pillow. His bloody hand rises. Gripping the railings of the bed, he leaves rusty smears on the metal and across the white sheets. He looks disjointed; distracted;  utterly shattered. His light eyes open, soft and blank. His mouth hangs loose, hand bleeding, bleeding.

John pulls on gloves; collect up bandages, gauze, scissors, and tape in a silver tray. He slides a stool up to the bed with his foot and sits down. Settling the tray on his knee, he takes Sherlock's mutilated hand  gently in his. With Sherlock’s hand cradled palm-up on his own, he sponges away crusty red. Watches the half-dried flakes dissolve into a thin parody of bloodshed in the metal basin. He tries to look anywhere but at Sherlock's face. Dropping his gaze, he studies the injury. It looks to be, of all things, a bullet wound. Shallow but severe. The bullet dug a long furrow through the skin. Sherlock's palm  is blackened and shiny, marked with powder burns.

John sighs. Stroking the tips of his fingers over Sherlock's wrist, he looks at him with desperation. He seems too small in the blood-stained bed for a man of his height and size. His chest appears curved and caved in, broken in two—at least to John's eyes. He can't look past it, can't stop seeing it.

Sherlock, his chest split open, heart still and black.

John closes his eyes and breathes deep. Finally, he opens them and bends back over the wound, raw edges with meticulous hands. 

His mind flashes to the previous day, to a visit from Mycroft.  Sherlock's brother had delivered a message, right through John's ears to the centre of his chest . Right to that place which still felt raw and broken.

"You have to go back, John. I am not asking you to move in with him, but you need to see him. Make him part of your life again."

"He has stopped working. He won't take cases. Not  just from me—he's ignoring Detective-Inspector Lestrade as well.”

"John, you are the only person he wants. The only one he will open the door to.  I do not  entirely understand his reasoning behind it, but he has decided he cannot function without you ."

John sighs, and scrapes a hand across his face. His palm rasps against rough stubble. From the corner of his eye, he catches movement. Sherlock's eyelashes flutter, blue irises peeking through. The detective blinks. Runs his tongue over dry, cracked lips, he stares from beneath heavy lids.

"John," he rasps. Clearing his throat, he tries to curl his fingers through John's as fresh blood bubbles from the wound. "John."

"Yeah," John replies. There's nothing more to say.  He touches his fingers  gently to Sherlock's wrist, over the pulse, and the detective stops his struggles . Relaxing, Sherlock watches as John sponges away fresh blood. John watches back, taking careful stock of the other man's condition.

Even without the ragged gouge in his palm, Sherlock is not in what anyone would term 'good health'. He is thinner than usual—too thin. His lips are more than chapped; they  are cracked and split and bleeding. His tongue looks swollen, too big for his mouth. Dehydration. His face is chalk-white from blood loss, but likely other factors as well. Faded blue eyes study him,  oddly dulled, the usually clear, sharp gaze dimmed.

"God, Sherlock," John mutters. He presses the sponge a bit harder than intended and catches Sherlock's wince from the corner of his eye. "Can't you take better care of yourself? You're a full-grown man."

"No."

John's head snaps up and he stares, pausing, sponge held over Sherlock's hand. Water oozes into his palm; mixes with the blood and runs down Sherlock's wrist. John watches the slow, red progress, naming each bone the trail touches. First the lunate, the centre-most bone, pooling in the cleft beneath the heel of the hand. The red trickle slants sideways, dripping along the radius; striping down Sherlock's forearm. Ulna, his brain supplies. The thought is distant, stained with a smell of antiseptic and disinfectant.

"What do you mean,  ‘_no_ ’?" John demands, sitting back with a scowl. He tries to pull his hand away, but Sherlock fumbles and grabs. He holds on, smearing blood against John's lifelines. He frowns, meeting the detective's eyes. Sherlock looks back; opens his mouth, then shakes his head and drops John's hand. John breathes  slowly . He collects himself, wiping the mess away from Sherlock's arm.

"God, you're an idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Dumb!Lock


	9. Recoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was scientific, John." Sherlock hears himself spit, the words venomous. Inside, he is collapsing; caving in on himself. Because this is too different. They won't be the same. Sherlock is not a poetic man, but this feels wrong and broken—like he's lost his only friend.
> 
> If Sherlock were better versed in sentiment, he might realize that he has. As it is, he just feels alone. John is sitting right beside him—he can reach out and touch him—and he feels alone.
> 
> "Right." John's words break into his thoughts, drawing him back to the present like a tug at a leash. Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes focusing on the man he once called friend. "Of course it was. Because it's perfectly normal to shoot yourself in the hand for science." 

_"God, you're an idiot."_

The words rankle. They crawl under his skin and shift against bones like tiny claws. Sherlock lifts his chin and the barriers come up. Because that  _ hurts _ , and this is J_ohn_ , and he means it this time.

"Hardly, John." Sherlock hears himself say, his voice clipped; cold and impersonal. "It was intentional." He wiggles his fingers, watching blood rise from the edges of the wound, running down his wrist. John doesn't move forward to wipe it away this time. John sits in the chair with his hands folded in his lap, looking at him.

"Oh?" Disbelief and skepticism colour John's voice. The accompanying eye roll makes it clear that he isn't buying it. "Not an accident, then." It is not a question

Sherlock squares his shoulders and sits up straighter. It makes his head pound, and all he wants is to curl up in John's lap, crawl inside John and listen to his heart; fall asleep.

"Of course not. I am hardly an imbecile, John." Sherlock's voice is careful and hard. "I know how to handle guns. I would not shoot myself in the hand by accident."

John fixes him with a look.

"So this was intentional." John states. Sherlock says nothing John stares him down. "You shot yourself intentionally in the hand because... what? You  were  _ bored _ ?" John snorts, and that hurts as well.  It twists inside Sherlock's chest, making him think of ugly things—of rotting flesh and dying roses . "What, the wall wasn't good enough this time?"

His words are almost joking, and that's the worst. It is a sick parody of what they once had, of their easy camaraderie; the jokes and laughter and careful smiles.

John is twisting that. He is ruining it, turning it into something malignant and perverted. 

"It was _scientific,_ John." Sherlock hears himself spit, the words venomous. Inside, he is collapsing; caving in on himself. Because this is too different. They won't be the same. Sherlock is not a poetic man, but this feels wrong and broken—like he's lost his only friend.

If Sherlock were better versed in sentiment, he might realize that he has. As it is, he  just feels alone. John is _sitting _ right beside him —he can reach out and touch him—and he feels alone.

"Right." John's words break into his thoughts, drawing him back to the present like a tug at a leash. Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes focusing on the man he once called friend. "Of course it was. Because it's _perfectly__ normal_ to shoot yourself in the hand for _science_."

John hurls the last word like a tangible object, and Sherlock realizes that he can feel it. John feels it too, this sudden de-fragmentation of the past.

_ John. Don't. Don't go. Please. _

"John—" Sherlock starts, holding out the wounded hand, reaching. John stares at it, stares into Sherlock's palm as Sherlock goes on. "John, I didn't—"

"It's like stigmata."

Sherlock goes silent. "Sorry?"

John levels him with a look, dangerous and blank; unreadable. Sherlock hates it. He has never had to struggle to read John more than right now. He feels like a man flying blind, waiting for the clouds to swallow him whole.

"Stigmata," John goes on. His voice is flat as he recites. "In religion, stigmata  is believed to symbolize the crucifixion of Jesus Christ." He reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to the raw, burnt skin. Sherlock twitches at the contact but keeps his hand steady. John's fingers are warm on his skin, through the gloves, and he wishes John would never stop touching him. "People have claimed to have stigmata.  Said they'd developed holes in the center of their palms, a mimicry of the wounds Jesus carried, made by the nails that held him to the cross . Claimed it as a sign of  being touched by the Holy Spirit or something."

Sherlock looks at John with sharp eyes. "I know what stigmata are, John." His head tilts, eyes considering. "You hardly strike me as a religious man, Doctor Watson." The title rolls off his tongue without warning; it sounds cold and unemotional. 

Detached. 

Inside, he is falling. Breaking apart into scattered pieces. Lost.

_ John, I didn't mean it. John. John, don't. _

John's head jerks up, and his fingers drop away. The vague look on his face fades, replaced with tense crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Deep lines bracket the edges of his mouth.

"I'm not." He states. "It  just reminded me of… you know what? Never mind." He stands, pulling the gloves off and tossing them into the biohazardous waste bin. "I'll find someone to take care of your hand."

Sherlock sits up, panic slipping through his chest. His face shifts, crumbling. "But aren't you going to—"

"No." John cuts him off. Swinging about, he looks at the detective with desperate eyes. "No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm done. I  was done three years ago. I would say I'm sorry, but..." he hesitates, tongue flicking out and tracing over his bottom lip. "But I won't. I can't. Or, I  just —" John shakes his head, lifting and dropping his shoulders in a shrug. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Don't off and die again, all right?"

John turns away. He walks out of the room, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #IBelieveInScieeenceee


	10. Reflex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood on his hands. Blood on the ground. Sherlock’s eyes. Ice blue, staring. A sidewalk painted in gore—brains, and blood.
> 
> His best friend’s wide, staring eyes. 

John closes the door behind him. He feels Sherlock’s hurt against the back of his skull like a dull, thudding ache at the edge of his eyes. It is palpable, threatening a headache like a storm. He sighs; rubs at his forehead and turns to tap the arm of a nearby nurse.

“The man in there—” he indicates the closed door. “Can you take care of him, please? And give him a sedative?”

“Of course, Doctor Watson.” The nurse turns away to gather a tray before sweeping past him, into the room. John hears a faint protest drift through the door. The sound is angry and upset, dragging against his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. 

John leans against the wall, listening to Sherlock’s feeble complaints. His captive breath finally releases once the sounds die away. Soft, familiar snores reach his ears, bringing images and memories. Cozy rainy evenings in a small, dusty flat. A fire below a brick mantle festooned with experiments and a grinning skull.

John shakes himself. He straightens as the nurse exits the room, closing the door behind her. He nods, thanks her in a low voice, and turns from the room.

John walks through the halls of the hospital with hands deep in pockets, his mind lost in thought.

_ What an idiot. _

He notices his hands balled into fists inside the white doctor’s coat. Forcing his fingers to relax, he rolls the knuckles to stretch them out. Stepping into his office, a frown pushes deep creases along his forehead.

John settles into the chair behind his desk with a heavy sigh. Resting his elbows on the surface, he drops his head into his hands, face cradled by clammy palms. He feels a wet, warm liquid against his jaw. Opening his eyes and sees a smudge of blood on his wrist. Sherlock’s blood. He stares at it—stares through it and into the past.

Blood on his hands. Blood on the ground. Sherlock’s eyes. Ice blue, staring. A sidewalk painted in gore—brains, and blood. 

His best friend’s wide, staring eyes.

He still doesn’t know how he did it. Hasn’t asked. Hasn’t  really wondered. Hasn’t cared.

John leans back in the chair, hands falling heavy on his knees. He sits limp and defeated behind the desk. There’s blood on his hands, his coat and his face. All Sherlock’s, leaving an ineffable mark.

There’s blood in his heart and that is Sherlock’s, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SherlockSnores


	11. Repercussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees John, summoning him from black and white memories. A graveyard. A black tombstone imprinted with his own name in silver-white lettering. John standing before it, hands balled into fists with shoulders shaking. Covering his face with his hand. Covering his tears and his pain. Ever the soldier, pushing strength into moments of unraveling. 
> 
> _“You were the best man, the most human… human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.”_

Sherlock wakes from his sedative-induced slumber. He feels disoriented, confused by the unfamiliarity of a dark and strange room. He feels hot. Blazing, an inferno. He kicks his legs, pushing off scratchy blankets.

_ John. John? _

He coughs, dry throat like sandpaper, and rubs his face with his hand. His palm feels weird and rough. Blinking, he tries to clear the haze from his eyes. Shapes clarify in the darkness. White curtains around a hard bed with metal rails. Machines droning with low beeps. 

Hospital.

Sherlock rubs his face again, wincing at faint pain and numbness. Narrowing his eyes, he notes the bandage wrapped around his hand. He flexes his fingers, a slow, experimental movement. There is a tight pull at the edges of tender skin. Stitches.

Sighing, he lays back, slinging an arm across his eyes. He feels—undone. In pieces. Drifting and unmoored. Sedatives and self-injected drugs scramble his mind; blood loss leaves him delirious. Delusional. Dehydration and stress set his skin ablaze.

Voices. He hears voices. They echo through his head. Memories. The dark of the room; the heat of his body.

_ “All lives end. All hearts  are broken . Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” _

Mycroft: deprecating and belittling. Dismissive. _ _

_ "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did ,  I wouldn't be one of them." _

His own words. Biting and acrid, meant to hide his own feelings. Spat from dead lips.

_ “I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath.” _

He is there, in 221B. On the floor and bleeding, bleeding. All around him, the faces of everyone who ever doubted him. Turned on him, questioned his very existence. Disregarded and discarded him.

_ "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side." _

His words again. Spoken to The Woman, to Irene Adler. The room swirls. Lights flash inside his head and across his eyes.

_ "You look sad when you think he can't see you." _

Molly. Underestimated, overlooked Molly. Too observant for her own good, smarter than anyone gave her credit.

They stood around his bed.  All of them. Even the silent ones, who had nothing to say with their mouths, said it all with their staring eyes. Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade. Irene Adler. Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson.

_ “I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.” _

Moriarty.

They stood, silent and ringing the hospital bed. Every one of them. 

Almost everyone.

_ John. Where is John? _

Sherlock’s head jerks. Sweat stands out on his brow, dampening his hair and trickling down the side of his face. He groans and twitches. His hands jitter against the blanket.

He sees John, summoning him from black and white memories. A graveyard. A black tombstone imprinted with his own name in silver-white lettering. John standing before it, hands balled into fists with shoulders shaking. Covering his face with his hand. Covering his tears and his pain. Ever the soldier, pushing strength into moments of unraveling.

_ “You were the best man, the most human… human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.” _

John, grieving. Struggling not to fall apart. Failing and coming to pieces.

_ “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” _

Sherlock sees him, sees him so  clearly , there in the cemetery. Here in the room. 

His brain burns. His eyes roll beneath eyelids painted with black smears on a paper-white face.

Everyone fades away—everyone but John. He imprints himself on Sherlock. In his brain, and the backs of his eyes. Sherlock’s body spasms, his limbs jerking in sharp, spastic movements.

_“John.”_ His voice is a croak; harsh and rapid, the beating of his heart an advanced staccato inside a too-thin chest. He writhes on the bed, head jerking violently against the pillow. Frothy drool leaks from the corners of his mouth. His arms move of their own accord, eyes rolling back into his head.

Machines and monitors blare rapid alarms. Sherlock Holmes seizes in a dark hospital room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #EverybodysACritic


	12. Regulate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John nods, and his mouth pulls tight at the corners. “I have to go. It sounds bad. I have to—” his voice takes on a ragged edge, a hint of broken fear seeping through. Mary knows that there is an empty space inside of John—a hole ripped by Sherlock Holmes. She nods and sits up to kiss him on the lips, stopping his panicked repetitions. John sags and leans into her; rests his forehead against her shoulder.
> 
> “I can’t lose him again.” His voice is soft and broken. Ragged. Mary rests her hand on the nape of his neck, holding him like something made from delicate glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, none of my writing is meant as a judgement to people who use substances. I work with people who use illicit substances in an overdose-prevention agency, and I want to take the time to acknowledge the validity and humanity of those people. I felt the show pushed some intensely negative, awful language around people who use substances, and I do not plan to perpetuate that in my writing.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> Also: GSW = gun shot wound

John is asleep. Snoring into the pillow, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed, arm draped over his wife’s back. Mary sleeps with her cheek pillowed on an elbow, lips parted with hair covering her face. John is dreaming of silence and battlefields. His eyes roll beneath their lids and his fingers stretch for non-existent guns.

His phone goes off like an alarm, blaring out a pre-programmed ringtone into the 3 am darkened bedroom.

“What—” John sits up, eyes bleary, face marked with pillow creases. Beside him, Mary stirs. Opening green eyes, she stares at her husband as he picks up the phone; looks at the screen and sighs.

“Hospital?” She murmurs, voice heavy with sleep. John nods and rubs his eyes with one hand, answering the call with the other.

“John Watson.” Standing, he looks for his pants—the hospital rarely calls unless there’s an emergency.

“Sir, it’s that patient—” the words emerge quick and panicky. John sighs, recognizing the voice of one of the new interns. He  slowly pulls a pair of faded jeans on in the dark.

“Slow down, Bennett,” he mumbles, peeking at Mary. She is still lying in bed, eyes half-closed, watching him. She arches an eyebrow and he shrugs, grabbing one-handed for a shirt. “Tell me what’s happened.”

There is a pause on the other end of the line, and a faint whooshing sound; Bennett taking a slow breath. Finally, he speaks. “It’s that man, sir. The one who came in with the GSW to the hand.”

John stops trying to pull his shirt on one-handed, letting it hang from one arm as he sits up straighter.

“What about him?” He snaps, trying and failing to keep an edge of panic out of his voice. Beside him, Mary raises herself on an arm, a concerned frown touching the edges of her mouth.

“It’s not good, sir. He—” There is hesitation as Bennett hears the edge in John’s voice.

_ “ Bennett .” _

Another breath.

“He’s had a seizure. Sir. He’s stable, now, but…” the voice trails off, reluctant. “…he is in bad shape.”

John stares at the wall across the room; feels the thudding of his heart deep in his chest and hears it in his ears.

“Sir?” Bennett, questioning his silence.

“I’m on my way.” John ends the call and shoves the phone into the pocket of his jeans. Pulling the shirt on  entirely , he turns and leans down, kissing Mary on the forehead. “I have to go.”

She looks up at him, searching his face. “Sherlock?” The name is not a question. She knows their history; knows John well enough to recognize when he is in crisis.

John nods, and his mouth pulls tight at the corners. “I have to go. It sounds bad. I have to—” his voice takes on a ragged edge, a hint of broken fear seeping through. Mary knows that there is an empty space inside of John—a hole ripped by Sherlock Holmes. She nods and sits up to kiss him on the lips, stopping his panicked repetitions. John sags and leans into her; rests his forehead against her shoulder.

“I can’t lose him again.” His voice is soft and broken. Ragged. Mary rests her hand on the nape of his neck, holding him like something made from delicate glass.

“I know.”

They stay like that for seconds that stretch into minutes, pressed together with comfort and pain . John moves at last, kissing her cheek and standing up. He pauses. Gripping the bridge of his nose, he takes a breath and swallows the glass shards rising in his chest and lungs.

With a grateful look at his wife, John stuffs his feet into shoes and leaves the lamp-lit room.

The drive to the hospital seems to take longer than usual. Yet, it also seems immediate. Time bends and twists, warped by the dark early morning light. John grips the steering wheel, knuckles white against peeling leather.

He walks into the hospital with quick, sharp strides. His fidgeting hands and cramped fingers grip at the hem of his shirt. Bennett, the intern, waits for him at the entrance to the intensive care unit. John falls into step with the younger man and Bennett quickens his pace to keep up.

“We’ve moved him into intensive care.” Bennett begins, voice wavering with the energy expended to match John’s quick strides. “He…  seems more stable.” He pauses, casting a sideways at John and fiddling with the clipboard in his hands. John notes the motion; concludes it must be Sherlock’s chart.

“Was it  just the one seizure?” He asks the question in a quick, toneless voice, keeping his face and voice level. Beside him, Bennett shakes his head.

“No, sir… there… there were…” He looks at John. Clearing his throat, he fiddles with the clipboard again. “Three, sir. Once since I called—which was after the second.” He catches the way John’s jaw clenches and his eyes skate away.

“Do we know why?” John maintains a bland tone of voice, trying to keep his face blank as a tic jumps along the curve of his jaw. Beside him, Bennett runs a nervous hand over his face.

“Yes…” he speaks  cautiously , eyes flicking from John to the clipboard, and away. “Drugs, sir.” A hesitation. “A… lot of drugs.” Bennett is talking  quickly now, almost babbling. “Stimulants. Opioids, too. With the injury and the blood loss... He  was dehydrated , malnourished, and suffering exhaustion. The stress of it all…” He pauses, looking bewildered at the strange rage in John’s eyes. “He spiked a fever. With the physical stress, the seizures were almost inevitable.” Bennett goes quiet and looks  nervously at John, shifting on his feet. When John holds out his hand, silent, Bennett hands him the chart with reluctant fingers.

“He still hasn’t woken up. We have him on IV fluids and are trying to reduce his temperature.”

John flips through the chart. Bennett follows him down the hall, anxious-faced and perturbed.

When they enter the room, there’s a small flurry of activity. Two doctors stand at the foot of the bed, exchanging whispers, and concerned faces. An intern monitors beeping machines as a nurse wipes a damp cloth over a pale face.

_ Sherlock. _

John looks at that familiar face. He stares at the sheer whiteness of it, a version of this face he has only seen once before, lax and loose. If not for the monitors tracking Sherlock’s heartbeat with discordant pings, he might be dead.

Again.

John moves closer to stands at the bedside, looking down at the long form tucked into the bed. At the world’s only consulting detective. At the sick, stricken, substance-riddled wreck set against stark white hospital bedding.

_ You idiot. _

Pulling up a chair, he sits and bends over the file in his hands. Even after he has finished reading, he stays. John sits and stares into a pale face that almost blends into the paper-white pillowcase. An hour passes, then two; soon he is the only one left in the room.

Just him and Sherlock, together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #TogetherAgain


	13. Retrograde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A defect of the losing side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, sorry. 
> 
> I based this on research I did on dreams people have had during seizures. I considered skipping Sherlock's perspective for this one, but thought I'd throw something in.

He is afloat. Drifting through endless, empty space. Black, black; flashes of light.

_ Synaptic; synapses; synapse. _

Names are constructs. Humans are constructs. Humanity is indefinite.

_ Defect of the losing side.  _

Endless spirals within infinite forms of space and time. Continuous surges of incorporeal, flooding sound. 

_ A chemical defect.  _

A universe of answers. Of potential, pericentric epicenters. 

_ Sentiment. _

Sherlock sleeps. Drifts in his flashbulb brain and fire-alarm thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SentimentalSediment


	14. Resilience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stares down at the familiar face. He reaches out, hesitates, and brushes his fingers through tangled, sweaty curls. His palm drifts along Sherlock’s forehead, over hot, dry skin. John strokes the pad of his thumb along the sharp curve of a cheekbone and his face twists. He wipes away the drool with gentle fingers and brushes his hand against his leg to dry it. 

“Doctor Watson?”

A hand on his shoulder. A gentle shake and concerned tone.

John jerks awake, snapping upright in the chair. He blinks, bleary-eyed, and takes in his surroundings. Hospital bed and  steadily beeping machines. The blurry outline of Bennett beside him.

“Yes?” John mumbles. He straightens and stretches, arms reaching over his head. A crick in his neck cracks, his back kinked from sleeping in the chair. 

“Your wife called, sir. She asked you to call her back.” Bennett shifts his feet. Crossing his arms, he looks uncomfortable. John peers at him and rubs a hand across his face.

“Thanks.” John stands. Straightening his clothes, he rolls his neck, pops and cracks sounding out. Bennett nods and leaves the room to give him privacy. John sighs and looks down at the figure in the bed. Sherlock is still sleeping. His limbs look loose and straight, with his face pushed into the pillow, mouth open. A small trickle of drool drips from the corner of his full lips. He looks  simultaneously peaceful and broken.

John stares down at the familiar face. He reaches out, hesitates, and brushes his fingers through tangled, sweaty curls. His palm drifts along Sherlock’s forehead, over hot, dry skin. John strokes the pad of his thumb along the sharp curve of a cheekbone and his face twists. He wipes away the drool with gentle fingers and brushes his hand against his leg to dry it.

Sighing again, he digs his phone out from the pocket of his jeans.

The line rings once, twice. Mary picks up on the third ring and he feels himself relax. The tension in his shoulders dissipates at the sound of her level, calm voice.

“How are you doing?” John closes his eyes, sinking into the support.

“I’ve… been better.” John admits, looking back down at Sherlock.  Phone cradled between ear and shoulder, he tangles his fingers in damp curls, looking over pale skin and shadowed eyes .

Mary murmurs comforts through the line. John hums and replies to her words and questions as he continues to look at Sherlock. He strokes his finger along a sunken cheek and feels a hitch in his chest—that old familiar ache. His wife sends her love and John responds in kind. Ending the call, he pauses for one final moment beside Sherlock’s hospital bed. He looks down at him, intent and earnest.

_ Wake up. Come on, Sherlock. _

Nothing. The pale remains still and withdrawn.  _ _

_ For me. _

John straightens his clothes again and heads out of the room for morning rounds.

When John returns, it is nearing five o'clock. He sinks back into the chair, settling himself into the uncomfortable plastic seat. He has already called Mary to tell her he is staying here again. He should go home, should at least shower. But he cannot bring himself to leave.

John sits in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He leans his elbows on his knees and cradles his head in his palms.

_ Sherlock. _

He stares at the man, curled into his own length against papery sheets.

_ Come back to me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #LivinOnAPrayer


	15. Reconfigure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winning the doctor back was proving harder than he’d thought. The drugs and subsequent overdose/withdrawal obviously hadn’t helped things. He wants John back in his life—needs him back. Somehow, he has to make John understand they need one another the way a man needs air.
> 
> Desperately and without question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of helpless!Sherlock and doctor!John in this chapter. I still am not exactly sure where the ending of this fic will be, but please comment if you have anything to say. I haven't written these characters in about 8 years and I am very much open to feedback and comments! 
> 
> Thanks for reading so far, I plan to keep updating regularly. 
> 
> And yes, this will eventually be more Johnlock than it currently is, but hopefully the little gentle touches can tide people over until then.

_Wake up. Wake UP. **WAKE. UP.**_ _ _

_ I will burn the  _ **heart ** _out of you._

Sherlock’s eyes open. All he sees is darkness. He blinks, knowing his eyes are no longer closed, and cannot equate reality with the wall of black before him. 

_ What  is  this? _

He shifts, finding his body stiff and reluctant. He tries to lift his arms, finds a delay, and feels a jolt of fear through his chest. His head swims and aches—he lets out a sound, attempting words. He finds himself unable to articulate the simplest of sentences.

Sherlock struggles and spits out a harsh cough. Jackknifing into a sitting position, he gags and throws up.  He feels the warmth and weight of it against his leg through the thin blanket and his face twists as he retches again . He groans and presses a hand to his face, movements slow and awkward. Starbursts flash in his eyes as his vision begins to return. Pinpoints of colour and the outline of a person.

“Oh—here.” an unfamiliar voice to his left. He feels someone pulling the blankets off his shuddering body. Listens as they  are balled up and stuffed into crinkling bags.  He listens to steps retreating from the room and rolls his head against the pillows, grinding his teeth . The bite of withdrawal creeps through his body, sinking sharp teeth into his spine. Sherlock groans. Propping himself up on his elbows, he shifts his pained legs on the bed.

There are sudden hands on his shoulders, pushing him back into the pillows with gentle force. Sherlock struggles against the pressure for a moment. Pain lances through his skull and he allows himself to  be settled . He makes a rude, rough noise deep in his throat and rolls his eyes.

“You always were dramatic.”

Sherlock blinks, twice, hard. He frowns and struggles to focus his still-dim vision. A face swims into focus—familiar, tense, a sharp, slight smile twisting the lips. Sandy hair streaked with grey. Blue eyes dark with concern. A face that spreads warmth through his hollow, aching chest.

“Hardly, John.” Sherlock croaks. He coughs and spits up, spittle running down his numb lips. Scowling, his eyes shift away, embarrassment burning in the pit of his stomach.

A gentle hand, gloved, wipes away the drool on his chin. A finger strokes along his jawline, tilting his head up and Sherlock looks at the man above him. John’s face,  faintly blurry, hovers in his view. His eyes are on Sherlock’s, his expression indecipherable. Sherlock stares at him, trying to look past the foggy edges of his own vision. His hands twitch and a brief spasm rocks his body. He looks away from John and bites at his lips, shivering. John's hand drops from his face, the moment severed. Sherlock feels pathetic, filled with a hard hatred for himself.

John turns away, pulling fresh blankets out of a cabinet on the other side of the room. Sherlock looks at his back, noting the stiff, lines of the doctor’s shoulders beneath his white coat.

“What happened?” He asks, hating how small his voice sounds.

John straightens and moves back towards the bed. He unfolds the blankets and drapes them over the detective’s body. Tucks them with gentle, methodical hands around the edges of the mattress and Sherlock’s feet. John’s grip  briefly rests on one of his ankles through the blanket with a quick, firm squeeze before moving on.  Sherlock stares at the wall and John stands beside him, studying the monitors of various machines with hands in pockets .

“You had three seizures.” 

Sherlock frowns and grips the blanket against his body. He looks at John, still staring at the monitors. Sherlock narrows his eyes, watching that familiar face. “The drugs?” He asks, noting the muscle twitching in John’s jaw as he nods, face tense. Sherlock studies his hands before he shivers with a strong wave of nausea. He presses the back of a hand to his mouth, a low choking sound slipping from his lips.

Wordlessly , John turns away; shifts back and places a metal bucket in front of his face. Sherlock retches, body wracked with tremors. He empties the acidic content of his hollow stomach. He feels a warm touch at the base of his neck—John’s hand, a reassuring weight. The contact is an electrical point. The heat spreads from John's palm through Sherlock's body, right to the tips of his toes. Sherlock gags and spits, sweat beading on his forehead. There is nothing  substantial left in his stomach, and the clear acid and bile burn his throat. He whines and groans. John's hand slips up Sherlock's neck, fingers pushing into the curls at the base of his skull.

When he finally finishes, John pulls the bucket away and moves across the room to deal with the clean-up. Sherlock falls back against the pillows, limp and untethered. He feels the ghost of John’s touch on his skin, lingering as an imprint of heat on his clammy skin. Breathing in loud, harsh gasps, he looks around the room. It is small and private, with an open door at the back—likely a bathroom. There is a flushing sound and John emerges from the room. The now-empty bucket held in his hands confirms Sherlock's assumption.

John places the bucket on the table beside the bed. Turning, he inspects the IV bags attached to Sherlock through needle and hose. He avoids Sherlock's eyes, body rigid. 

“John.” Sherlock hates the smallness of his voice, raw and hoarse from the strain of speaking.

John turns away. He retrieves Sherlock’s chart and scribbles quick, messy notes. The detective stares at the pen as it moves, trying to decipher the written words from the movements of John’s hand. Pain lances through his skull again and he stops, pressing his head into the pillows with a wince. He tries again, watching the doctor with glassy eyes.

“_John.”_ Stronger this time; insistent.

“_What,_ Sherlock?” John answers. He does not look up from the chart, though he is no longer writing and the pen has gone still in his hand. His tone matches the detective’s, sharp and pained.

“About the… about the drugs,” Sherlock begins. He falls silent when John turns and looks at him with a blank face and empty eyes. Only the tenseness of his mouth and the minute tremor in his hands give away his stress.

_ Forever the soldier. _

John stares at him for a moment, stretching silence into a painful absence of words. Finally, he looks away, back to the chart. He presses the end of the pen to the paper but doesn’t write anything.

His hand still shakes, a slight, uncontrolled tremour. 

John takes a deep breath, letting it out in a loud whoosh of air. “I don’t care.” He says. His voice is quiet and Sherlock strains to catch the words. 

“John—” Sherlock tries again, feeling  grossly helpless when John looks him in the eye.

“I said, I don’t care, Sherlock,” John speaks in a low, level voice. His hands shake and he stuffs them deep into the pockets of his white coat. 

_ Hiding them from me.  _

“I don’t want an explanation,” John says in that empty voice. He bends and places Sherlock’s chart in its place before straightening. He rubs at his chin and his hands are steady now. Staring at the open door, the outside hall, he says, “I’ll have someone bring something for the nausea.”

Abrupt, closed-off, John turns away. He shifts around on his heels in a military-style about-face and makes to leave the room. 

"John!" Sherlock rasps, panic slipping into his voice. John pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. Sherlock swallows, pain prickling through his throat. "Please John. Stay."

The silence stretches out between them. John's fingers tense, digging against the wood. His back is hard and stiff, facing away. Finally,  slowly , his shoulders slump.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John's whisper is soft enough that Sherlock has to strain to hear him. "I... I can't."

His hand drops back to his side and he walks out into the hall.

Sherlock grasps at the blankets with feeble hands. Turning his face, he looks at the wall and shifts in the bed. He feels a burn he suspects to be guilt deep in his stomach and tries to dismiss it as a possible ulcer instead. 

A new doctor enters the room.  _I_ ntern, young, nervous,  _just_ _ adopted a cat, seems_— the deduction trails off as another flashing pain jolts through his head . Sherlock ignores him. Eyes closed, he fakes sleep while the doctor injects a liquid antiemetic into his IV. The intern updates the medical chart and leaves.

Alone again, Sherlock thinks back to John. To the warm, gentle touch on his neck, the fingers in his hair. The look in John's oceanic eyes. Sucking in a low, shaky breath, he digs his fingers hard into the blanket.

Winning the doctor back was proving harder than he’d thought. The drugs and  subsequent overdose/withdrawal  obviously hadn’t helped things. He wants John back in his life —_needs_ him back. Somehow, he has to make John understand they need one another the way a man needs air. 

Desperately and without question.

Lulled by the repetition of beeping machines, Sherlock falls into a dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SherlockHolmesDramaQueen


	16. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pauses outside the cracked-open door to Sherlock's room. The man is a motionless lump beneath the blanket pulled up to his chin. He is lying on his side, curling into himself, his hunched back facing John. Looking at him, John longs for the old days. When things were easier between them. When he could sink into the chaos of life with Sherlock Holmes. When he wasn't left to hover at the edge of a hospital bed, longing to fold himself against the curve of Sherlock's spine.

Sitting in his office, John stares at the desk before him. At the stacks of papers and charts. At requisition forms, documents, and overtime requests. He sighs. Sitting up, he begins sifting through the piles. The paperwork built up as he waited at Sherlock's bedside for him to wake.

_Well, he is awake now. _

John shakes his head and stares at a form without seeing it. Yes, Sherlock may be awake, but that doesn't mean everything is fine. John thinks back to the panic he'd felt, seeing Sherlock laying so still. Thinks of how it flashed him back to the sidewalk outside of Bart's. To Sherlock's white, blood-spattered face and staring blue eyes.

His chest constricts, and John lets out a pained cough. He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes, ignoring the way his vision blurs and stings. Jaw clenched, he settles into the paperwork.

When he finally looks up, the clock hanging on the wall beside him reads half past 6. His eyes burn from staring at endless lines of handwritten charting notes. He begins to packs up his things, organizing paperwork into folders and sliding on his coat.

He feels grey as he walks through the hospital. Grey and drab. He often feels this way. He took the job as chief of surgery for the pay increase. With a young son and a new home, working as a family doctor no longer paid the big bills. He likes the job, aside from days spent locked away in his office, staring at notes and charts and budget sheets. 

He pauses outside the cracked-open door to Sherlock's room. The man is a motionless lump beneath the blanket pulled up to his chin. He is lying on his side, curling into himself, his hunched back facing John. 

Looking at him, John longs for the old days. When things were more natural between them. When he could sink into the chaos of life with Sherlock Holmes. When he wasn't left to hover at the edge of a hospital bed, longing to fold himself against the curve of Sherlock's spine. 

John waves to nurses and doctors as he passes on his way to the front door. He catches a strange look from Bennett, watching with a concerned expression.

He files the interaction away and steps into the fresh air of outside, breathing deep. He pauses, looking back at the hospital. Thinks of Sherlock and wonders if he is still asleep. Shaking himself, he heads for the parking lot.

At home, he eats dinner with his family. He and Mary talk about their respective days, and he plays with his young son. He tucks Locklan into bed and watches as his thin chest rises and falls with the gentle breathing of sleep. He showers and makes love to his wife. Falls asleep in her arms.

When he wakes at 4 am, he still feels grey and washed out. Even with a life so full, he feels empty. He stares at the wall, in the darkness. Curses Sherlock Holmes for coming back into his life and making him feel incomplete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter - John's being boring.
> 
> Also, obligatory chapter hashtag
> 
> #EverythingHeSeesisGreyAbaDiAbaDie


	17. Recalculate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tremors in his hands, the limp in his step. The pain in his eyes. These have become part of John Watson. These are the marks left by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock spends two weeks in the hospital, writhing with boredom and recovering from withdrawal. His hand heals, leaving behind a rough, tender scar that stretches and aches when he makes a fist.

As the week passes, John visits four times. Only once was it intended for him to know: when John came to check his vitals and progress. The other three times, John slips into his hospital room in the early hours of the day, between 4-and-5am. Always silent. Abrupt.

The first time, Sherlock is already awake. He recognizes the familiar gait. There is a faint limp returning to John's steps.

Instead of acknowledging John's entrance, he flicks looks to the clock on the wall. Notes the time and closes his eyes, feigning sleep. He listens to John's hesitation in the doorway and strains for the marked sound of uncertain breath. Sherlock holds his own breathing still and wills tentative legs to carry John closer.

And, finally, John enters. He slips into a chair on the far side of the room, careful and quiet. Sherlock hears his soft gasp as the legs squeak against the floor, and fights to keep his eyes closed.

John stays for 15 minutes, Sherlock counting each second. He doesn't speak. Sherlock hears rustling fabric and the scrape of a hand over an unshaven jaw. A distant sigh. The clock ticks on the wall, and Sherlock listens to John's struggle in the dark. When he leaves, he avoids the chair's squeaky feet and leaves the room without pause.

Sherlock spends the rest of that night staring at the wall, fighting to keep his brain from extravasating.

The second time John visits, Sherlock is asleep. He wakes with a sudden feeling of being watched. He freezes, holding himself still and listening with straining ears until he hears a familiar breathing pattern.

_John. Again._

Sherlock lays in bed and notes the presence standing—hovering—at the foot of his bed.

A hand on his ankle, over the blankets. Gentle contact.

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, unable to contain it. The touch is like fire, warm through the covers. At the sound, John freezes at the end of the bed. Sherlock feels the rigid way John's fingers clench and flex on his leg. He forces his breathing back into a regular rhythm. Pushing his face into the pillow, Sherlock feigns a soft snore, heart racing in his chest. John's hand relaxes and remains. His shaking fingers grip Sherlock's ankle like a lifeline.

Eventually, John moves away. Sherlock hears him pause in the door. Listening, he counts the seconds until footsteps walk down the hall, and John is gone again.

_10 minutes. _

The second to last time John visits, Sherlock is asleep again. The day was hard, filled with harsh withdrawal shakes and nauseating nightmares. Sherlock fell asleep the way a car crashes: fast and unstoppable.

He wakes to a soft touch. The gentle warmth of John's hand on his. Hesitation and sweet yearning. John's hand interlocking with his where it rests palm down on the mattress as Sherlock lay on his stomach. He listens to John's shaky, uneven breathing and peeks from under dark lashes. Scarce light from the window paints John's face with moonlight, etching deep lines into his contorted face. John lowers his head, and a tear splashes onto their intertwined hands. Sherlock shudders. John doesn't notice the movement, sitting in the chair beside the bed and shaking.

"Sherlock…" he whispers. His voice is heavy and broken.

Struggling, Sherlock holds his body still in the bed, forcing slow, even breaths out past numb lips. John's hand shakes with minutiae earthquakes. Sherlock restrains himself from squeezing the other man's fingers.

He may be an idiot when it comes to emotions and 'real people,' but he is not an idiot when it comes to John Watson. Sherlock knows that if he moves, John will be gone.

Sherlock lays in the hospital bed and listens as his friend cries in the darkened room. John is a lifetime away and a bare 10 inches apart from him. He counts the seconds in his head and pins himself to the mattress until John's shaking stills.

The tremors in his hands, the limp in his step. The pain in his eyes. These have become part of John Watson. These are the marks left by Sherlock Holmes.

There is a gradual relaxation in the hand gripping him. A silently counted half-hour later, John slips away. He stands with a muffled cough and a rough, hard breath of regained composure before leaving.

Sherlock settles in the dark with tangled thoughts. His warm hand fades to cold in the stillness of the early morning.

When John comes the fourth time, he is cold and distant, hiding behind professionality. Sherlock lays in the bed. Awake, he tracks John's movements with hazy eyes. An intern follows John like a baby duckling, uncertain, and aching for praise. Sherlock hates him. Hates the intern's eager face and light brown hair. Hates the way he mirrors John's movements and blinks too fast and too often.

_Bennett. _

His name is Bennett, and Sherlock hates how John smiles at the intern instead of him. Even if the expression is tinged with distant annoyance.

When John finally does turn his gaze on Sherlock, it is with cold and empty eyes. A careful, over-composed face. Sherlock hates that, too. But he hates Bennett more. He stares at the younger man, his face thunderous, eyes sharp and mouth tense. The intern stares back, his own eyes wide with confusion. He twitches and fidgets with the clipboard in his hands and looks at John’s back.

John is looking at Sherlock, pulling Sherlock back to him with that cold disregard, Bennett forgotten for the moment.

"Your vitals have improved substantially," John says, and his voice is flat. Sherlock knows it is a façade. He can see the apprehensive lines at the corners of John's eyes. He remembers the way John's hand shook when it held his in the dark.

"Good," Sherlock replies. He mimics John's subdued, clinical tone, fighting to hold John's gaze with his own. But John looks away, turning to retrieve Sherlock's chart. Bennett looks grateful, handing the clipboard over with eager hands.

"We should be able to discharge you in a few days," John says, reading through the chart.

_We. You. Us. _

Sherlock notes the distancing language. He digs angry fingers into the blanket tucked around his body. "Good." He repeats, and John's eyes flicker up, searching his face before they dart away.

"Yes," John says, softer. He clears his throat and hands the chart back to Bennett. He stands at attention and nods brusquely. "Good." He echoes Sherlock's words back to him. John turns on his heel and leaves the room. Bennett hovers, looking uncertainly at the man in the bed.

"Do—do you need… anything?" He asks, voice slow and shaky. Sherlock glowers at him, hating him. He aches to hurt his stupid, timid face and spits angry words at the young intern: "Get _out._"

Bennett nods, wide-eyed. He hurries to leave the room, taking the chart with him.

Sherlock sighs. Staring at the ceiling, he picks at his fingernails, grown long and jagged, hating the way they feel against his skin. Tearing at them, he tries to equate the cold, clinical John from today with the one who held his hand and fell to pieces in the dark. This John, the one keeping him at bay with a professional facade, is not _his_ John. Not the John he knew before faking his death.

He misses his John. Loss coils in his stomach like a stone. His fingers begin to bleed, and Sherlock doesn't notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SherlockHatesBennett


	18. Reactive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for the first time, John wonders what he is doing. When Sherlock was 'dead', all he wanted was for him to come back. To stop being dead and be part of his life again. He lost track of how many times he stared at the door of his own flat, wishing, waiting, for Sherlock to step through. To push past the doorframe as flesh and blood. A miracle in a long, dark coat.
> 
> He remembers shaking in the dark, aching for that reality more than he ached for anything. Imagined how Sherlock would look, curls dark and mussed, wet with misty London rain. He would stand there, high cheekbones and long limbs, and John would fall into his arms. Press his face into the curve of Sherlock's neck, taking in his smell, his warmth, his living, breathing presence. Sherlock would smell like rain and cigarette smoke and something unique to him. Something sharp and musky, and very much Sherlock.

Today is the day. The day of Sherlock's discharge.

John looks over the charts and notations in his office. Bennett stands on the other side of the desk, fidgeting and looking anywhere but at John.

Finally, John looks up. He nods and hands the chart back to the intern. "Everything looks good." He glances around the office and straightens his coat before sinking into his chair with a sigh. He closes his eyes. Sensing the younger man hovering, he opens them again. "Yes, Bennett?"

The intern shifts his feet, digging his nails into the clipboard. "Are—you're not coming?" He asks, hesitant. "For the discharge? Aren't you going to come, too?"

John looks up, face inscrutable. Bennett fidgets again.

"No," John says, finally. "I don't think I need to."

Bennett licks his bottom lip, looking uncertain. "O-okay." He turns to leave but pauses in the doorway. "Doctor Watson?"

"_What?"_ John's voice is harsher than intended, and he catches the intern's slight flinch.

"Sorry, sir. I just—I thought…" Bennett clears his throat, uncomfortable. "Isn't he—I mean, isn't he...your friend?"

John looks at his hands for a moment, missing the inflection Bennett imparts to the word 'friend.' When he answers, he chooses his words with care. "It's..." A pause. "…complicated." He finishes, shaking his head. "Never mind. Just—just go. Discharge him." He drops his eyes to the papers on his desk, adding in a soft voice: "I don't need to be there."

John listens as Bennett finally leaves. With blurry eyes, he records careful notes on a chart with shaking hands. Stop and covers his face with quivering fingers. It feels like he is coming apart with decomposition active in his very bones.

Standing with a harsh breath, John finds his heart racing, his skin clammy. He moves to close the door and slides down its length to the floor, pressing his back against the wood. John holds his head in his hands and breathes in too-quick, aching gasps. He grabs at his knees as his fingers tingle and go numb. His head swims with dizzying waves, heart racing in his chest.

John knows what this is, can identify a panic attack as quickly as a bullet wound, but he can't stop it from happening. He sits on the floor and presses himself into the wall. Grips his own arms and sinks into the out-of-control feeling of terror. Nausea rises in his stomach, cold sweat painting a shine over clammy skin. Pulse jumping in erratic rhythm, John pants through loud, harsh breaths. He fights to slow his breathing and thudding heart. In a gradual decline, his body relaxes, tension flooding out as feeling returns to cold hands.

John slumps against the door and closes his eyes, swallowing back tears. Standing, he makes his shaky way to the window, sliding it open with quivering hands. Pushing his face into the fresh air, he stares down at the parking lot.

A sleek black car creeps pulls up to the drop-off lane, idling grey exhaust into the brisk air. A tall shape, made small by distance, emerges from the hospital entrance. It moves with slow, painful steps toward the car. The back door opens, and a well-dressed, immaculate man appears. He attempts to assist the other man into the vehicle, and Sherlock waves him away with aggressive hands.

"No _thank you_, Mycroft."

The words float up to John, and his chest constricts. He takes slow, deep breaths to loosen it, watching the two men below.

Mycroft removes his hands from his younger brother and steps back. He watches Sherlock slide into the idling vehicle, the movement slow and painful. Closing the door, Mycroft walks around the back of the car. He pauses, hand on the open door and looks at the hospital. His head tilts, and John swears he can feel Mycroft's eyes on him. John jerks his head away with a sharp breath, heart pounding out a jagged staccato in his chest.

Mycroft slides into the car. The vehicle moves away from the hospital, disappearing into passing traffic. John rests his cheek against the cold windowpane and closes his eyes.

Sherlock is gone. Likely heading back to Baker Street as John deconstructs against the wall of his office. The fissure in his chest opens and aches, a tightness around his heart that makes it hard to bring air into his lungs.

Not for the first time, John wonders what he is doing. When Sherlock was 'dead', all he wanted was for him to come back. To stop being dead and be part of his life again. He lost track of how many times he stared at the door of his own flat, wishing, waiting, for Sherlock to step through. To push past the doorframe as flesh and blood. A miracle in a long, dark coat.

He remembers shaking in the dark, aching for that reality more than he ached for anything. Imagining how Sherlock would look, curls dark and mussed, wet with misty London rain. He would stand there, high cheekbones and long limbs, and John would fall into his arms. Press his face into the curve of Sherlock's neck, taking in his smell, his warmth, his living, _breathing _presence. Sherlock would smell like rain and cigarette smoke and something unique to him. Something sharp and musky, and very much Sherlock.

That fantasy kept him going, beyond the nights where he wondered how it would feel to just stop going on. Stop moving forward and let himself fade away. If not for Mary, he would have done it, he thinks. Leaning beside the window, John believes he would likely have given up. She came into his life at the exact moment he needed someone like her.

At this moment, he feels parts of himself begin to dissolve. Sherlock has done as John asked, performing a miracle and returning to life.

John can’t seem to stop pushing him away.

Pressing his hands against his eyes, he breathes through gritted teeth. Through the open window, he smells the scent of rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? I should be doing homework. Ah well, maybe I'll go for three.
> 
> #WHATBennett?????


	19. Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mistakes are meant to be fixed, little brother," Mycroft says, voice inexplicably kind. Gone are the derisive tones and sneering smirks. There is an edge of genuine love to the words, and Sherlock digs his hands into fists, shoving them into his pockets.

Mycroft's silence is heavy and unexpected. Gigantic. Sitting in the back of the black Jaguar XJ, Sherlock stares out the tinted window and tears at his nails.

"You didn't have to pick me up." He says, breaking the silence with a flat voice. Beside him, Mycroft raises his eyebrows. He shifts in his seat, settling his hands in his lap.

"Of course, I did." He looks sideways at his brother, and Sherlock feels the stare against the back of his skull. "I did not think John would give you a ride."

Sherlock tenses at John's name, knowing Mycroft must notice the reaction. He grits his teeth, pushing his palms hard against the cold leather of the seat. He bites his tongue and swallows the angry words filling his mouth with poison.

Mycroft looks out the window, mirroring Sherlock's posture. "It can't have been easy for him." He says, and his voice is careful. Sherlock's eyes dart away from the window and back, a tense frown flickering across his thin face.

"Who?" He mutters, petulant. "What are you talking about, Mycroft?"

His brother sighs, crossing his legs and leaning into the seat.

"John." Mycroft fixes his younger brother with a sharp look. Sherlock stares back at him with dull eyes. "You've made quite the mess, haven't you." It is a statement, not a question, and Sherlock hangs his head, mass of dark curls tangling across his brow. His hands twitch, and he picks at his nails again. Mycroft eyes the movement and shifts in his seat as Sherlock lets out a hard sigh.

"Yes." He raises his head; looks at Mycroft with desperate, lost eyes. "Yes, I have."

The brothers look at one another for a moment, silent. The car rolls to a stop, and Sherlock looks away, biting at his chapped lips. He reaches for the handle and opens the door, swinging his legs out. Sherlock stops at Mycroft's hand on his arm, looking back at him with deadened eyes.

"You need John." His brother says, and his face is hard. "And he needs you."

Sherlock stares at him. Shaking the hand off of his arm, he slips out of the vehicle and slams the door. Looking up at 221B, he hears the car window slide down, but refuses to turn around.

"Mistakes are meant to be fixed, little brother," Mycroft says, voice inexplicably kind. Gone are the derisive tones and sneering smirks. There is an edge of genuine love to the words, and Sherlock digs his hands into fists, shoving them into his pockets.

"I know." He grinds the words out past a clenched jaw and sweeps off the sidewalk, into the old building.

The flat is cold, dark, and dusty despite Mrs. Hudson's cleaning routine and the open curtains. The air is stuffy, heavy, and thick. Sherlock coughs as he enters the living room, pausing to lean against the sofa as a wave of dizziness locks his knees. The moment passes, and he moves through the flat, looking around. There is a faint red smudge staining the floor, and any sign of narcotics erased. This is thanks to Lestrade, who told him so during one of his visits to the hospital. Mrs. Hudson had confirmed the fact, complaining about the mess she had been left to clean up.

Sherlock smiles, a small upturn at the corner of his lips. He smooths a hand over the worn, marked table in the kitchen, dropping inelegantly into one of the chairs. His legs feel shaky and weak. His tenuous health shows in his faded eyes and the gaunt shadows of his cheeks. Balancing his chin in one hand, he stares at the table. Thinks about John and the tense, distant interactions between them. Of the intimate, vulnerable visits from John in the nights, sharp and raw with emotion.

Sherlock shakes his head and draws in a shuddering breath before pulling himself to his feet. Swaying, he steadies himself, anchoring a hand on the table for stability. Tethers himself with the muscle memory of John's hand curled around his own.

Faded and bled dry, Sherlock stumbles into the bathroom for a long-overdue shower. He stands under the hot water, steam wrapping around his thin, aching body. Ducking his head, the stream soaks his tangled hair, warming the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. Planting a hand against the shower wall, he watches soap suds slide down his legs. Watches as they swirl across the basin and down the drain. All he can see are John's tears in the dark hospital room, salty and silvered with moonlight.

When the water begins to cool, Sherlock shuts off the taps. Stepping out of the shower, pink-skinned and dripping, he towels himself off. In the mirror, he notes the aggressive jut of his hip bones beneath pale skin. Sees how his knees seem jagged and knobby. He has lost weight, too much weight. The sight makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

Dropping the wet towel on the floor, Sherlock slips his arms through the familiar silk of his blue dressing gown. He leaves the bathroom with hair damp and curling from the steam. Walking through the kitchen, he pauses at the foot of the stairs. Peers through the darkness in the direction of what was once John's room—_still is_ John's room, in his mind. Brow furrowed, he walks with slow, painful steps up the stairs. His bony hands grip the banister like a lifeline.

Dragging himself up to the landing, he hesitates outside the closed door. Pushing it open, he steps inside.

The room is empty, save for a fine layer of dust. Mrs. Hudson usually cleans in here as well, but she avoids climbing the stairs if her hip is bad. Sherlock files this information away in the section of his brain, labelled Hudson. Passing through the door, he stops and stands in the middle of the room.

Parts of the wall are faded more than others, the echo of long-gone objects outlined in brighter paint. He looks around, feeling empty and jagged. Pulling the closet open, he stares at the empty hangers. Catching a glimpse of tan, he lifts his head to peer into the dark shelf at the top of the closet. Reaching up, he feels about until his fingers brush rough, knitted fabric. Grasping, he pulls out a light brown jumper with a corded design on the front. Sherlock stares at John's jumper. Mycroft's words ricochet through his swimming head.

_Mistakes are meant to be fixed._

His eyes burn, and he presses the jumper to his face, rubbing his cheek against the rough knit.

_You need John. And he needs you._

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock growls. Folding to the cold floor, he curls long legs up against his stomach and clutches the jumper in his pale hands. He stares at the knit pattern, eyes unfocused and dark. Lifting it to his face, he presses his nose into the wool. Inhales. Pretends he can still smell John on it, his unmistakable scent caught in the fibres.

_Mistakes are meant to be fixed._

Mrs. Hudson finds him like that. She stands in the doorway, duster in one hand, gripping her bad hip with the other. Caught somewhere between sleep and not, Sherlock looks at her with dull eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock." She sighs, bending stiffly to place a hand on his shoulder. "You miss him, don't you?" She nods to the object, clasped in his hands. Sherlock sits up and stares at the jumper in his lap, silent. Mrs. Hudson smiles. "I'm sure he misses you, too." She says and pats his shoulder.

Sherlock sneers, his face twisting. With an angry motion, he flings the jumper away. Mrs. Hudson looks after it with wide eyes and steps back, straightening. She stares down at Sherlock as he untangles from his compact position.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson moves towards the jumper to retrieve it, but Sherlock gently grabs her arm.

"No," His voice is soft, measured. "No, John does not miss me, and you can leave his jumper there for the moths to eat."

"Moths!" Mrs. Hudson exclaims, before shaking her head and refocusing. "Sherlock, you don't mean that. You both used to be such good friends. I know things are different now, but I'm sure John will come around." She pats his shoulder again, sympathetic and maternal.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the discarded jumper before looking back to her face. "People keep saying that, and I do not understand why. _Why _must John inevitably 'come around'?" He turns away, arms stiff and angry. "He seems to have no intention of ever having a proper conversation with me, and I am tired of being yelled at and insulted." He straightens the robe around his lean body, looking anywhere but the jumper.

Mrs. Hudson opens her mouth to reply but seems to reconsider. Sherlock feels her studying him, likely noting the new thinness of his frame. His suspicion is confirmed when she pats him on the back, saying, "How about I put the kettle on, and we have a nice cuppa?"

The edges of Sherlock's lips twitch in a wry, quarter smile. Nodding, he follows her into the landing, slamming the door behind them. Mrs. Hudson's mouth tightens, but she says nothing. Ignoring the incident, she begins her slow, careful way down the stairs.

Sherlock pauses on the landing, looking back at the closed door. Reaching out, he presses the tips of his fingers to the old, worn wood.

"Goodbye, John." He murmurs, ignoring the hitch in his words. He turns his back on the empty room with its faded paint, discarded jumper, and forgotten memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SherlockIsAMoodyBoi


	20. Ramifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll do better." He mumbles, speaking only to himself. Digs nails into his own skin. Bites his tongue and shudders against the cold porcelain. John pants and sweats, locking his legs straight out in front of him. The muscles in his thighs burn, the pain breaking through the haze of terror.

After the first panic attack, they began to occur with frightening frequency. John hides them by ducking into bathroom stalls at the hospital. By excusing himself for a walk to 'clear his head' at home. By hyperventilating in his car. By shaking and falling apart behind the wheel of the old Volkswagen.

But the attacks are taking a toll. Hiding them is becoming harder as the days pass. Mary is suspicious. Bennett and other coworkers are concerned. Even his son watches him with wide, somber eyes when John grabs at his own arms during Locklan's evening baths.

He cannot get Sherlock out of his head any more than he can get the feeling of sheer panic out of his veins. The two are linked. John dreads the moments when he has to hide his degradation. His dissolution and dismantling. Spends his days shaken and shaking. Hiding from his own mind and the deepening shadows beneath his blurry eyes.

Mary breaks her silence on the matter a week after the first episode. She broaches the subject as she feeds Locklan his breakfast.

"How is work?" She begins, startling John out of deep reflection hidden behind an open newspaper. He sits up and takes a deep breath as his chest flutters. Gritting his teeth around the feeling and tamping down irrational panic.

"Oh—fine." He keeps his reply light and short. Careful. Mary nods, scooping at Locklan's food with a small plastic spoon.

"Busy?" She asks, and he catches her watching him from the corner of her eyes. He lifts the newspaper, shakes it open, and turns the page. He clears his throat, swallowing a mouthful of dry air.

"I suppose." John stares hard at the black and white type, clenching his hands around the edges of the paper. "Busy enough." He catches Mary's slow nod, noting the tension in her shoulders as she wipes their son's face with a damp cloth.

"Good. That's good." She sets the cloth down and turns towards him. Locklan grabs at the cloth and tries to stuff it into his mouth. Mary rescues the object and places it out of his reach, soothing the resulting pout. She settles her attention on John, searching his face. "You seem tired lately, I thought it may have been because of work."

_Dammit._

John shifts in the chair, staring at the newspaper as if it holds the meaning of life. "Oh. No. Just… not sleeping well, I guess." He speaks in a casual voice, avoiding her eyes.

"I know," Mary says, startling John into looking at her. She stares out the kitchen window, rigidness in her jaw. The look breeds an uncomfortable ache in his stomach. "Sometimes, I wake up, and you're already awake." She turns her head to meets his eyes. "Sometimes, I wake up, and you're not there." Her voice expresses resigned confusion.

John holds her gaze. He doesn't speak.

Mary sighs and turns back to their son, offering him a spoonful of breakfast. The child blows a raspberry at the scrambled eggs, banging tiny hands against the high chair. John feels a sick twisting inside his gut and closes the newspaper. Folding it in half, he places it on the table like something fragile.

"I'm sorry," John says, voice soft and eyes distant. "I promise it's not what you think."

Mary shrugs and keeps her focus on the squirming child before her. "I know it's been hard for you—Sherlock coming back. Then, with him in the hospital..." She falls quiet; sighs and speaks with a slight waver in her voice. "I know he was a big part of your life before… before he wasn't." She places the spoon on Locklan's highchair tray, wipes her hand with the cloth, and turns to face him. "But I need to know you're still devoted to this family."

The words hit John hard, sink in, and cinch a tight bind through his chest. He stares at his wife, feels vitriol and ire rise in his throat, tamps the feelings down, and bites his tongue. He can't even deny it. His apathy these past few weeks—he mistook it for fatigue, stress, a side-effect of the panic attacks. Clearly, it has not passed unnoticed. He can't even lie.

John looks at his wife in silence, hands clenching and unclenching around the edges of the chair. "I'm sorry." He says again, finally. The words fall from his mouth like heavy stones.

"I know," Mary replies, repeating her earlier words. Turning away, she gathers the plates and carries them to the kitchen sink. John looks at his son, squirming in his chair. The child looks after his mother, before turning somber eyes to his father. The expression is unnaturally grave on the face of a child hardly over a year old. John stares back, and Locklan blinks at him. John stands and walks over to his wife. He slips his arms around Mary from behind. Holding her against his chest, he presses his face into her short, curly hair.

"I'll be better." He mumbles, lips numb, his eyes fixed and staring out the window in front of the kitchen sink. "I'll _do _better. I will. I promise."

Mary stands stiffly, letting the water run into the sink. She holds a bowl in one hand, gripping the edge of the counter with the other. Slowly, she places the dish in the sink and shuts off the tap.

John waits. The seconds feel like an eternity between them as she rests against his chest, staring out the window. Finally, she moves, twisting in his arms to press a gentle hand to his face.

"Okay, John." They look at one another and there is a strange heaviness between them. At the table, Locklan burbles unhappily, banging his hands against the highchair. "Okay."

That evening, John sits in the bathroom. Perches on the edge of the bathtub and shakes. Irrational fear sets his chest on fire, burning synaptic agony through his head.

"I'll do better." He mumbles, speaking only to himself. Digs nails into his own skin. Bites his tongue and shudders against the cold porcelain. John pants and sweats, locking his legs straight out in front of him. The muscles in his thighs burn, the pain breaking through the haze of terror.

_I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #LocklanHatesEggs


	21. Reverberate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a different high than the one that landed him in the hospital, seizing and at the mercy of incompetent interns and furious ex-flatmate doctors. A better high, one built on the metallic tang of blood in the air and pasty, pale, empty shells of corpses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thrill of the game courses through his veins, all-consuming. This is a different high than the one that landed him in the hospital, seizing and half-dead. A better high, built on the metallic tang of blood in the air and pale, empty shells of people.

Sherlock prowls through the crime scene, his formerly cloudy eyes keen; sharp. He circles the body on the floor like a vulture. Deductions rip through his head, rapid-fire.

_The victim is lying on his stomach. He knew the attacker, was expecting them. Evident from the way his sleeves are buttoned. Mid-fourties. Chemist teacher, going by the flash burn on his wrist. _

The thrill of the game courses through his veins, all-consuming. This is a different high than the one that landed him in the hospital, seizing and half-dead. A better high, built on the metallic tang of blood in the air and pale, empty shells of people.

Lestrade's voice breaks into his ecstasy. "Any ideas?"

Sherlock scans the room. Modest, neat, but a little cluttered. He eyes an indent on the sofa; the shoes piled haphazardly at the door. "Several." He replies, bending to inspect the body closer. Eyes narrowing, he notes a long, blonde hair on the man's shoulder.

"He knew his attacker," Sherlock says, raking his eyes over the body. He studies the jagged stab wounds, tearing through fabric and skin. "I would say quite well." He stood with a sigh, rolling his shoulders and casting a sideways glance at Lestrade. "Come now, Greg—this is what you bring me? A lover's spat?" Sherlock squints at the floor, looking again at the shoes piled by the door. "Ex-lovers." He amends, slipping his tools into a pocket.

Lestrade looks startled. Whether because he didn't expect the outcome, or because Sherlock got his first name right, he isn't sure. The detective-inspector crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow. "Well, go on then."

Sherlock smiles, less smug than usual, and points at the body. "I found a hair. Blonde, long, likely female. Balance of probability. So woman, then. An ex-lover, likely a student." He moves his arm, indicating the dress shirt's carefully folded and buttoned sleeves. "He took pains with his appearance. However, it must have been short notice because…" he pauses, looking at the pile of shoes in the corner. At the cluttered bookshelf. "He didn't have enough time to tidy up sufficiently. Or didn't care to. He spent more time on his clothing than the cleaning. Indicates an established relationship, but not one so far along that he isn't still trying to impress. Or one that ended on bad terms." He kneels and passes a hand above the stab wounds. Lestrade's eyes follow the motion, face receptive and curious. "The stab wounds are jagged. Messy. Amateur. Characteristics of a crime of passion." Sherlock looks up, head tilted. "Statistically, women do not use guns, unless trained to or threatened. They often use them for safety, rather than violence. I don't think the murder was planned. She may have had ideas, but when it did happen, it wasn't planned." Sherlock points into the small kitchen, visible through the open concept layout. "And, a knife is missing from the block."

Lestrade nods and holds out a hand. Sherlock hesitates before taking it, allowing the older man to pull him to his feet. "Thanks." The gratitude sounds awkward and uncomfortable in his deep voice, and the DI shrugs it off.

"No problem. I'll let the team know what we're looking for. We questioned some of his students—something sounds a little familiar...blonde hair." Lestrade looks thoughtful. He turns away, pauses, and turns back. "Hey—we're having a thing." He squints and shrugs, spreading his hands. "Okay, it was my birthday on Thursday. We're all going out for a pint tomorrow if you want to join?"

Sherlock looks at Lestrade, measuring, searching. Finally, his eyes shift away. He pushes his hands into the pocket of his coat, shoulders lifting against the cold, slipping through the open front door. "I'll think about it." He says, careful not to commit. Lestrade shrugs and leaves well enough alone.

"All right. Well, thanks for your help." He claps Sherlock on the back and walks toward his team, leaving the detective beside the body. Sherlock looks down at the dead man and frowns.

Now that the case is over, he feels empty again. Always empty. He kicks at the carpet and walks out of the victim's house. Striding to the street, he flags a cab down. Seated in the back, he folds his fingers under his chin, pensive.

Aside from the case, Sherlock has avoided leaving Baker Street. Only extreme, crippling boredom had driven him back to The Work, fearing his brain may atrophy without distraction. Sitting in the cab, he plucks at the seat, brows drawn down in a scowl. He considers Lestrade's invite and wonders if John would also receive one. He has not seen John in several weeks, and the empty space inside his chest has only grown wider in John's absence.

Picking at his fingernails again, Sherlock stares out the window. He bites his tongue and retreats into his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #DontStabUrDate


	22. Ruminate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That used to be them. With the natural, comfortable camaraderie. When had Lestrade taken his place? With a pang, John realizes he and Sherlock have barely interacted in the months since he returned. The hospital stay was the longest, and every time John visited Sherlock, he had been asleep. Focused on keeping the man at arm's length, holding his own anger stoked and strong, John had allowed something to slip away. Had disregarded the second chance he had ached for.

John's life is marked with painful repetition. Day in, day out, the same cycle. He works, sleeps, hides his declining mental health. He plays with his son and tries to convince his wife he is still complete. He feigns normalcy and peacefulness. And he fails.

Day in, day out.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. _

This has become his mantra, drilled into his brain with the regularity and aggression of a sergeant. Eats the words for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Forces himself to stay together when all he wants to do is fragmentate.

It is a pure and straightforward relief when Lestrade calls him up to invite him to the pub with the team.

"Yes," John breathes into the phone. "Yeah. Yes, _definitely_. I'll be there."

Lestrade laughs at his enthusiasm. Mary supports the opportunity for him to regain some normalcy. She has learned of the panic attacks since the conversation in the kitchen. John strives to integrate her into his life; into the darkness working to engulf him. They start couples' therapy, and he finds himself almost tethered again.

Almost.

The panic attacks haven't stopped. If anything, they are getting worse. More and more often, Mary finds him curled up on the floor somewhere in the house. Finds him crying out and digging nails into his palms with blood between his fingers. She holds him, trying to ground him back into his life.

They both know she is failing. The nightmares are back, Afghanistan and Bart's rooftop, and they both know it isn't enough.

John is more than excited when Lestrade calls and invites him out for drinks. Maybe this is it, the thing that will help. Something that will tie him together with pieces of his old life. Not_ all_ the parts, not the_ essential_ pieces. Not the ones that tear him apart.

Friday night, he shrugs on his coat. Kisses Locklan and Mary goodbye and heads out into the evening air to flag down a cab.

The pub is loud and busy when John steps out onto the sidewalk. He pays the cab driver and turns to look through the frosted windows, hands deep in his pockets. He spots Donovan's curly hair through the window and, opening the door, heads in that direction. Making his way to the familiar group, he catches sight of another head of curls.

Sherlock stands at the bar with Lestrade. There is a half-finished pint in his hand, and a strange, comfortable smile on his face as Lestrade grips Sherlock's shoulder. As John looks on, the Detective-Inspector pulls Sherlock in for a hug, clapping him roughly on the back. With an indulgent smile, Sherlock allows the gesture. They separate, reaching out to clink their glasses together. Sherlock brings the glass to his lips, eyes scanning the room. They pass over John and stop. They look at one another from across the pub and everything halts. To John, the din of pub-goers, parties, and celebrations fall silent. He looks at Sherlock, and all he can hear is the uneven beat of his heart.

_Fuck._

Sherlock turns away. He looks back to Lestrade, who is gesturing animatedly as he talks. The DI's face is bright and flushed with alcohol.

John drops his eyes to the ground as the connection is severed, shivering in the eye of the storm. His blood rushes in his ears and he stares at his shoes. Panic rises in his chest, and he breathes out quick, shaky breaths.

Despite working to turn a cold shoulder to the detective, Sherlock's disregard stings. His eyes blur, the floor swimming in his sight. Hands clenching at his sides, he feels the old tremour ripple through his tense fingers.

"Hey! John!" A hand falls on his shoulder and he almost jumps from his skin. Looking up, he finds Anderson at his side, holding a beer and offering his free hand. "It's good to see you."

John takes the hand, surprise rippling across his face at the friendly greeting. To be fair, Anderson never had a problem with him. John had heard guilt nearly destroyed the man after Sherlock's 'suicide.' He had blamed himself, agonizing over how to right a massive wrong. Returning Anderson's handshake, John feels a small smile spread across his lips.

"Hey, Anderson. It's good to see you, too." He replies, mouth thick with the strange words.

"Come on, we're over here." Anderson gestures. He turns and leads John to the back of the pub. Donovan sits beside Dimmock and a few other detectives John vaguely recognizes, and a few he doesn't. He settles among them, accepting greetings and handshakes. He orders a pint when the waitress wanders over.

"So," Donovan turns to John, squinting at him over the rim of her drink. "How is it, being chief of surgery?"

John smiles and thanks the waitress as she places a beer in front of him. "Yeah, good." He says, sipping the beverage. "It's great, actually." Donovan smiles at him, and he catches the sideways look she tosses in Anderson's direction.

"Always hoped you'd find a hobby." She says, half-joking, half-serious. She nods towards Sherlock and Lestrade, still standing at the bar. Sherlock says something, his deep voice carrying but words indiscernible. Lestrade howls with laughter in response, slamming a hand against the counter. Sherlock looks surprised, a hesitant smile on his lips. Shaking her head, Donovan rolls her eyes. "Lestrade's had a few."

"Mhm." John hums. Sipping at his beer, he watches the two men. He listens to the droning conversation between the people at the table. Still, his attention remains on the tall man with dark curly hair. The one standing with his back to them, a beer held casually in one long-fingered hand.

Three beer later, John and Donovan are discussing old cases. John notes how they both avoid mentioning Sherlock, and John watches the men at the bar. Now seated on bar stools, they appear deep in conversation. Several times, Lestrade reaches out to grip Sherlock's arm. The detective seems relaxed and laid-back, allowing the contact. Something sours in John's stomach.

That used to be them. With the natural, comfortable camaraderie. When had Lestrade taken his place? With a pang, John realizes he and Sherlock have barely interacted in the months since he returned. The hospital stay was the longest, and every time John visited Sherlock, he had been asleep. Focused on keeping the man at arm's length, holding his own anger stoked and strong, John had allowed something to slip away. Had disregarded the second chance he had ached for.

"John?"

Startled, he looks around, realizing Sally was trying to get his attention. His face flushes as he realizes he had checked out of the conversation, lost in thought.

"Sorry," he replies, sheepish. "I was... wool-gathering." Sally offers a passive smile and turns to Anderson. John sips his beer and looks back at the bar. Notices Sherlock placing his empty glass on the counter and excusing himself. Sliding into the crowd, he disappears like smoke.

John stares after him, jumping when Lestrade walks up and loops an arm around his neck. The man smells of aftershave and one-too-many. John almost chokes on his beer when the DI yells in his ear.

"JOHN! So good to see you! How the hell you been??" There's a noticeable slur in the older man's voice, and John grimaces as the DI spills beer on his pants.

"Yeah, good. Thanks for the invite." He replies, and Lestrade nods, grinning. The waitress brings a round of shots and, cheersing one another, they down their servings. John's head swims, and he grabs onto the barstool to keep from sliding off. The alcohol burns in his throat, making him feel heavy and hot. Standing, he waves away Donovan and Anderson's concerned looks.

"Air." He mouths at them, and they look at one another. Shrugging, they raise their glasses to Lestrade, who is already ordering another round.

John makes his way for the door and staggers out onto the quiet sidewalk outside. The noise from the pub pours out onto the street, and a few passersby cast him curious looks. John nods vaguely toward them. Walking to the edge of the sidewalk, he sits down on the curb and hangs his head between his knees. It has been a long time since he drank so much, and his body reminds him that he is not a young man anymore. He sucks in a lungful of cold air and his chest burns, but his mind is a little clearer. Lifting his head, he catches movement from the edge of his vision and turns.

A lit cigarette in hand, red tip smoking, Sherlock freezes, and stares at him. He is half-turned, one leg pointed in the opposite direction as if about to walk away. John stares back. He shakes his head, the buzz of alcohol returning, and laughs, a harsh barking sound.

Because, of course, Sherlock is here. How could it be _anyone else?_

_It is never anyone else. It will always be Sherlock Holmes. Always and forever, amen._

"Hey—" John begins, but Sherlock is already walking away. Away from the pub and away from him. The detective flicks his cigarette into the street and wraps his coat around himself.

John jumps to his feet. He staggers and braces a palm against a lamppost, head swimming.

"Goddammit." He mutters, regaining his balance. He squints and finds Sherlock already several feet away, moving with purpose and no sign of stopping. John runs after him, stopping again as his vision darkens at the edges. He definitely drank more than he should have. Frustrated, he balls his hands into fists and shouts after the retreating man's back.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

The tall shape falters but doesn't stop. John scowls and plants his feet on the sidewalk, trying again.

"Sherlock Holmes, you _STOP RIGHT THERE_."

The detective halts. He spins around with shock on his face. Another man rounds the corner on a bike and runs Sherlock down, both of them falling into a confused heap.

"Shit," John mutters. He hurries forward, brain sobering with each step as adrenaline floods his body.

Both men are sitting up. The man on the bike looks dazed, and Sherlock seems annoyed. Other than a few scratches and a steadily bleeding cut above Sherlock's eye, they seem okay. After checking the other man over, John tells him so.

"Yeah, okay." The biker says, standing up and righting his bike. He glares at Sherlock, still sitting on the ground with a dark look on his face. "Watch where you're going next time!"

Sherlock glares at the man as he bikes away, lips twisted. The snarl fades from his face, and the detective closes his eyes with a sigh. John stands over him and, when Sherlock opens his eyes again, they narrow, his mouth tense and tight. John looks down at him for a moment, then offers his hand. Expression unreadable, Sherlock looks at it before allowing John to pull him to his feet.

"Thanks." He mutters, looking anywhere but at John. He wipes a hand across his forehead and stares as it comes away smeared with blood. He huffs and looks back at John, his expression vulnerable.

Reaching into his pocket, John finds a pack of tissues and presses a wad to the cut. He dabs at the laceration. Fresh blood wells up, trickling down Sherlock's face. John sighs.

"You need skin closures. Maybe even stitches." He and Sherlock look at one another, a moment of silence stretching out between them. Blood soaks through the wadded tissues, and John shakes his head, a strange and sudden smile twisting his face. "Why are you _always bleeding_?" He demands, the tone of his voice a mix of anger and exasperation.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, before letting out a surprised chuckle.

"You tell me, you're the doctor." He replies. They look at one another for a long moment, caught together in the dark outside the loud, brightly-lit pub.

"I miss you," John says. His voice sounds soft and fragile. The words escape his lips without intention. His hand begins to shake as he holds the tissues to Sherlock's forehead. The detective smiles down at him, a genuine expression on his pale face.

"I know, John." A hesitation. Then: "the feeling is…mutual." Sherlock looks away, forgetting the wound. As John's hand slips from his skin, the thin scab breaks open, and fresh blood flows from the injury. Sherlock screws up his face at the warm trickle.

"Okay, come on," John gestures down the street. "I'm assuming you still have a medkit at Baker Street?" At Sherlock's slow nod, John hands him a new fold of tissues. "All right—apply pressure. Let's go." Sherlock follows, pressing tissues to his forehead. He doesn't have to lead. John knows his way home.

The walk to Baker Street is quiet. They move in companionable silence, John stopping them every few minutes to check the cut. It continues to bleed, and he passes Sherlock more tissues when the first wad soaks through. Climbing the stairs of 221B, the familiarity of the moment strikes John like a blow. The sound of their rhythmic steps. The musty smell of the building and the vibration of Sherlock's slow, even breaths beside him.

They step into the sitting room—almost unchanged since he last saw it. John glances at the cushioned chair he once thought of as his. He notes the Union Jack pillow is still in its place against the back of the chair.

He turns away from the sight, gesturing for Sherlock to sit on the sofa, taking the medkit from him. Kneeling between Sherlock's legs, he peels the tissue away from the cut and inspects the wound. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on his face, sharp and penetrating like little daggers against his skin. John tries to ignore the sensation and fails, blood rushing into his cheeks. Comforting warmth radiates from Sherlock's body, knees resting lightly against John's sides.

As nervous as John is, he feels calm and comfortable. Gone is the panic that has plagued him in the past few weeks. He pushes the realization aside, reaching into the medkit for antiseptic wipes and skin closures.

"This is going to sting." He warns. Sherlock huffs, closing his eyes with a grimace as John wipes at the wound. He cleans the blood away, finding the edges of the cut. They are smooth and line up well. John is confident there won't be a bad scar, maybe not one at all, if he uses skin closures instead of stitches. He applies them, taping gauze over his handiwork to keep the closures clean and secure. Leaning back, he realizes his hand is resting on Sherlock's knee—_for balance_, he tells himself. John hesitates, fingers curling. Clearing his throat, he jerks his hand away. Sherlock watches him, eagle-eyes noting each movement, but says nothing.

John turns away and begins tidying up the supplies. As he returns the kit to its place in the kitchen, he hears Sherlock rise. Turning, he finds the detective standing, hands at his sides, face uncertain.

"John—" he begins, as John says his name.

"Sherlock—"

They both pause, watching each other nervously. Finally, Sherlock clears his throat.

"John, I know things—I know it has been—I'm sure it was difficult..." he stops and frowns; clenches and unclenches his hands. He looks helpless. "I'm not… good at this." He says slowly. "This isn't really my area."

The familiar words said so long ago, or a variation of them, stick in John's chest like an arrow. He feels a wave of exhaustion roll over him and closes his eyes. The buzz from the alcohol is long gone. In its place sits a massive headache, crawling into his head and shredding his brain.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes." John sighs. Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Are you _seriously_ telling me you can't even apologize?"

A strange sound slipping from Sherlock's lips makes John's eyes fly open. The detective is staring at him, face incredulous.

"I have to apologize?" Sherlock says, his voice edged with nervous irritation. "I already have, John. Or have you forgotten that like you've tried to forget me?"

Anger roils in John's chest, burning through his throat like acid reflux. Balling his hands into fists, he presses them against his forehead.

_"Forget you?"_ He doesn't mean to, but he explodes. John hurls the words at the man standing in front of him, so confident and so wholly infuriating. "As if I could _forget you_ if I tried!"

The anger is an inferno inside him. All the suppressed rage and fear and panic attacks. The shame and the pining and the sheer aching emptiness of the past weeks. It builds up inside of him and spills out in a flood of poisonous words until he is yelling at Sherlock. It feels like everything inside is pouring out like pus from a festering wound, and he can't stop.

He _can't stop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #DrunkLestrade


	23. Rationalize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks at him; watches his eyes flash with a fresh wave of anger. He closes his own eyes and leans his forehead against John's. The other man's skin is hot and feverish: miasmatic emotions wreaking havoc on his sympathetic nervous system. He says the name again, voice emphatic and desperate.
> 
> _"John."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.  

> 
> 5 chapters in one day? Naw, I wrote this one a while ago when the inspiration struck.

John is yelling at him. His words are angry and harsh, and Sherlock is so incredibly tired. Exhausted and deadened. It seems John is always yelling at him now, words blending into a blur of endless rage.

Sherlock's chest aches, his head throbs, and all he wants is for John to stop. To stop shouting, swearing and pushing him away. He wants to fall into John and sink like a stone into a man he once found safety in.

He walks forward, and John backs away, moving until his shoulders press against the wall. He is staring up at Sherlock, lips angry and twisted, spitting rough and furious words. He pushes his palms hard against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shifts back but holds his ground. Moving forward again, he catches John's agitated hands in his own. The cut on his forehead stings. John's hands are hot and shaking against his palms.

"Sherlock, what are you—" John begins, tone demanding and sharp. Sherlock squeezes John's hands in his own with firm pressure, and John falls silent. He stares up at the detective, his chin tilted and defiant, eyes flashing as he twists his hands, trying to free them.

Sherlock holds tight and slides his fingers down to John's wrists. He raises the doctor's arms over his head, holding them against the wall. He slides closer, pressing his body into the lines of John's. The other man snarls at him. John shifts his hip hard into Sherlock's thigh, trying to shove him away. But the angle is awkward, leaving John with little leverage.

"Get _off _me." John spits, his face red with rage.

Sherlock looks down at him and speaks softly, one word: "John."

At the sound of his name and the strange edge in Sherlock's voice, John falls still. He stops shoving against the taller man and narrows his eyes.

Sherlock looks at him; watches his eyes flash with a fresh wave of anger. He closes his own eyes and leans his forehead against John's. The other man's skin is hot and feverish: miasmatic emotions wreaking havoc on his sympathetic nervous system. He says the name again, voice emphatic and desperate.

_"John."_

He opens his eyes, catching the helplessness in John's face. "I know you visited me in the hospital," Sherlock says, voice low and hypnotic. John stares at him, disconnect in his eyes. Uncertainty and fear in the blue depths. "I wasn't asleep," Sherlock continues. "I was awake."

John looks aghast, unmoored, and untethered. He closes his eyes, shaking his head. When he opens his mouth to speak again, Sherlock squeezes his wrists, hard. Eyes sliding shut again, Sherlock tilts his head and finds John's lips with his own.

There's a quiver in the other man, a shocked spasm in the arms Sherlock holds against the wall. John stands statue-still, Sherlock's body pressing against his. When their lips part, he pants desperately, sweat glistening on his skin. Opening his eyes, Sherlock finds John staring at him, bewildered indignation written across his face.

"You _bloody bastard."_ John snarls, discovering his voice at last. He jerks his arms, the motion hard and sudden enough to break Sherlock's grip on his wrists. The detective flinches, stepping back as John frees himself. John grabs at him, snagging a fistful of shirt collar and hauling him back. The movement is violent and unexpected, pulling Sherlock off balance. He staggers, and John grabs his hip with a rough hand. Digging his fingers into muscle and tendon, he brings Sherlock back against his body.

"Bastard," John breathes furiously, repeating himself. Yanking Sherlock's face down by his grip on the detective's shirt collar, their mouths meet in a mash of teeth and lips.

John kisses him with frantic desperation. Sherlock tries to match the energy, planting his hands against the wall as John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock whimpers when John grabs at his shoulders; his waist; his arms. John tastes like alcohol, pain, and longing. Like home—sweet, safe home.

John pushes past Sherlock's lips, their tongues brushing. Bodies pressing together, John's arousal is hard and evident against Sherlock's thigh. Insistent and wanting. A low whine slips from Sherlock's mouth as John grips his arse, rutting against him.

Breaking the kiss, John pushes his face into Sherlock's neck. His mouth moves over Sherlock's skin, sucking and biting. Sherlock tilts his head back, eyes shut and lips parted as he lets out a soft, sighing moan. John's hands slip under Sherlock's shirt, brushing over the curve of his stomach. Groaning, he lifts his head and stares up at Sherlock, his breathing heavy and harsh, air moving past his lips in ragged gasps. Sherlock tilts his head and inhales a short, shaky breath.

"John..." Sherlock breathes. His lips feel swollen and soft; looking at John, he finds his face flushed, his mouth wet. He looks wrecked, undone. John begins to move forward, pushing Sherlock back until his legs hit the sofa and he sinks down. John follows, pulling Sherlock's shirt out of his pants, fingers working at the buttons. Sherlock's breathing quickens as John pushes the shirt open and aside. Bending, he mouths over Sherlock's chest, tonguing at a nipple, the dip of his stomach, the curve of his neck.

"Oh god, Sherlock," John whispers. His palm drifts over the hard press of Sherlock's erection through tight dress pants. He lifts his head, capturing Sherlock's mouth again, sinking his teeth into Sherlock's bottom lip. The detective gasps, hands slipping over John's bent back. When his fingers reach the waist of John's jeans, John freezes and jerks back.

As they stare at one another, John's face darkens, and he pushes away, off the couch. Sherlock looks up at John, confused, and startled. John glares at him, hands balled into tight, shaking fists at his sides.

"I'm _married_." John hurls the words at Sherlock like weapons. "I have a _son_." He grabs his head. "This is… this is wrong." He brings his hands back to his side and looks at Sherlock with pain in his eyes. "I—I can't do this. I _can't."_

The detective sits frozen on the couch, staring. His shirt is still open, a faint mark from John's teeth rising on his shoulder. John shakes his head. Stumbling back, he grabs his jacket and thuds down the stairs. His steps are an angry staccato on the creaky floor. Sherlock listens to the front door slam below. Letting out a shaky breath, he slides down to the floor. Drawing his legs to his chest, he leans his head against the couch, facing the empty room. Pressing shaking fingers to his mouth, he feels the ghost of John's lips on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #AngryMakeoutSesh


	24. Rhetoric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hope you know what you are doing, Doctor Watson." He says, and his voice is oddly expressive. John frowns, and Mycroft meets his eyes with substantial regard. "I once thought you might be the making of my brother. I would rather you not be the un-making of him." His grip tightens. "Do you understand?"

John's quick, nervous pace takes him two streets away before slowing. Sucking in a shallow breath, he stops to gain his bearings, staring up and down the road. As he bends, trying to ease the burn in his lungs with hands on his knees, a sleek, black car turns the corner. John straightens, panting. Hands balanced on his hips, he watches the vehicle slide up to the curb.

The door closest swings open, and Mycroft leans out, his face grim.

"Get in, Doctor Watson." It is a command, not an invitation, and John knows better than to argue. He slides into the idling car, closing the door behind and staring at the seat back in front of him. To his left, Mycroft sits stock-still, the only movement his fingers drumming against his knee.

The silence stretches out and the car pulls away from the curb, sliding into late-night traffic. When John begins to fidget, Mycroft finally speaks, prefacing his words with a heavy sigh. "What happened?"

John shifts, opening his mouth to accuse—_you were spying?_ He thinks better of it, pausing to gather his thoughts.

"What did you see, exactly?" He asks carefully, watching the man from the corner of his eyes. Mycroft sighs again and stretches his long legs, arms folded across his chest. He looks John in the face, and his brows knit together.

"I saw you both outside of the pub. I saw the incident with the bike—the bleeding, and the talking." The frown deepens into a scowl and Mycroft looks out the window. His face smoothing, eyes on the passing landscape, he goes on. "I know you both went to Baker Street." He turns back to John, mouth set in a hard line. "And I know you ran away."

"Pretty fast response time," John mumbles, flippant and not caring. Mycroft arches an eyebrow but does not validate the comment with a response. Instead, he repeats himself.

"What happened." This time it is a demand, not a question. John shifts, uncomfortable.

"A mistake." He says. "That's what happened. A mistake." He turns desperate eyes to the older Holmes brother. "Mycroft, I messed up."

Mycroft is once more staring out the window, his hand gripping the leather seat.

"I know." He replies, and they sit in silence.

As the car pulls up to the end of John's driveway, he reaches for the door handle, and Mycroft's hand stops him. He turns to look at the other man, and Mycroft's face is earnest, intense.

"I hope you know what you are doing, Doctor Watson." He says, and his voice is oddly expressive. John frowns, and Mycroft meets his eyes with substantial regard. "I once thought you might be the making of my brother. I would rather you not be the _un-_making of him." His grip tightens. "Do you understand?"

John nods. They look at one another for a moment before John jerks his arm away and steps out of the car.

Standing at the edge of his driveway, he watches the car slip away into the darkening night. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lost in thought.

_I would rather you not be the un-making of him._

Mycroft's words ring in his head.

_Do you understand?_

A threat? An entreaty? He does not know.

Shrugging, John turns and makes his way up the driveway. The house is quiet as he enters. He takes care to close the door noiselessly, pulling off his jacket and shoes. A movement draws his eyes to the hallway. Mary leans against the archway, one hand resting on the wall. She offers a hesitant smile as John slides his shoes into the rack beside the door.

"Good time?" She asks, holding out a hand. He takes it, pulling her against his chest. Mary leans into him, slowly rubbing his arm. Comfort and closeness.

A comfort he doesn't deserve. He remembers the press of Sherlock's body against his and supresses a wince.

"Yeah," John replies, resting his chin on her head.

John lays in bed that night, simultaneously wide awake and completely exhausted. Beside him, Mary is sound asleep, and John feels worlds away from the sound of her gentle breathing. Sprawled on his back, he stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide and unblinking.

His body aches, and there's an entirely new emptiness inside his chest. One he has not experienced before, even when he thought Sherlock was dead. Even when the panic attacks drained every ounce of life from him. Brushing his hand over the soft sheets, he thinks of them curled in Sherlock's hair. Of his mouth on Sherlock's skin, sharing breath and electricity. Air stutters out of his lungs, and he shuts his eyes tight.

John lays in the dark beside his wife and feels more alone than he ever thought possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #BigBrotherMycroft
> 
> or
> 
> #BigBrotherIsWatching


	25. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock picks at his nails, staring at case files, and wishes he could punch John Watson in his idiot's face. Wishes he could kiss his idiot's face. Wishes John was not a man of his word. Sherlock has never been one to wish infidelity on anyone, but he wants for it now. Pulling at his bottom lip, he tries to remember how it felt to have John's hands on his body, John's mouth on his.
> 
> As much as he understands John has a family, a wife, and a child, Sherlock still aches for when they were their own kind of family. The two of them against the world. Adventure and danger and adrenaline.

In the aftermath of John's rejection, Sherlock finds himself on edge. Irritable. He snaps at anyone around him, spitting ire even when unprovoked. As an exasperated Lestrade notes, he is _unbearable_. People begin to keep their distance. At crime scenes, the team hangs back and waits until Sherlock stalks over. He delivers his judgement in scalding, clipped tones, striding away in a flurry of sharp looks and long coat.

Even Mrs. Hudson is fed up with him. If she leaves tea, it is only when he is asleep or out. She seems to have stopped engaging with him after he yelled at her for breathing while he was thinking. He hasn't seen her for several days. If he didn't hear her puttering away in her own flat, he would have thought she was away.

He doesn't mind the silence. At first. Initially, the quiet is welcome. He focuses on cases, both current and cold, which Lestrade brings by at his request. The DI drops off files before rushing away, avoiding Sherlock's acid tongue.

As the days tick by, Sherlock finds himself losing ground. Running out of steam. Solving cases, while a welcome distraction, does nothing to fill the abyss gaping in his chest. He assumes this is 'heartbreak,' but having never experienced it himself, he cannot be sure.

Sherlock sits alone, open case files, and photographs of corpses strewn across every surface of the flat. He sprawls on the floor among them, arms akimbo, staring at the empty fireplace. He longs for something to dull his mind as it races, pushing itself towards oblivion. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he could end up in the hospital again, where he will have to see John. And he does not want to see John.

Or, maybe he does. But he does not think John wants to see him. Sherlock avoids thinking about slipping needles into his veins, staring at endless cases.

On one such day, as rain slides in sheets down the windows, he grabs at his head; pulls at his hair and snarls. His mind feels like it is _coming undone_, and he hates it. His mind, his greatest strength, should make him compelling. Help him solve cases and hold him high above others.

Now it feels ruined with thoughts of stupid John Watson. Impressions of his even stupider mouth, his idiotic lips, and moronic face.

Maybe this is heartbreak or love. Whatever it is, it is exhausting. He feels fed up and frustrated and furious.

Sherlock picks at his nails, staring at case files, and wishes he could punch John Watson in his idiot's face. Wishes he could kiss his idiot's face. Wishes John was not a man of his word. Sherlock has never been one to wish infidelity on anyone, but he wants for it now. Pulling at his bottom lip, he tries to remember how it felt to have John's hands on his body, John's mouth on his.

As much as he understands John has a family, a wife, and a child, Sherlock still aches for when they were their own kind of family. The two of them against the world. Adventure and danger and adrenaline.

They didn't kiss back then, nothing like what happened the last time he saw John. Things were never like that between them. John shouting at him, saying he missed him. John holding his hand in the dark hospital room. These moments woke something in Sherlock. Being away woke something as well. Coming back drove home the realization that he cares for John.

Loves John? Sherlock has never loved anyone before, John may be the first. It is probable. The emotion is unfamiliar but likely.

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

Sherlock leans back from the table, pushing a stack of files away. This is unbearable. Again, he pictures John's face. He is unclear whether he wants to hit or kiss that face. All he knows is there are few things he wouldn't give to have the opportunity to make that choice right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #JohnWatsonsIdiotFace


	26. Righteous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to show you that this family _is_ still a priority." He murmurs, Mary's lips warm against his. He flashes back to Sherlock, a different mouth and a different face. John pushes the image away, touching his fingers to Mary's cheek. Trying to ground himself in the moment, he breathes her in. Lilac soap and hairspray. Feminine and utterly different from the smells plaguing him with guilt.

The guilt is eating away at him.

John and Mary attend couples' counselling weekly. The therapist encourages them to open up to one another. He looks at John with his tense shoulders and clasped hands.

_The guilt is eating away at him._

Mary smiles and rubs her husband's back, reassuring the therapist that John has been great. Attentive and kind, both to her and their son. He seems re-directed in the best way.

**The guilt is eating away at him.**

Despite Mary's words, the therapist looks at John with knowing eyes. John, inevitably, feels his own eyes shift away.

He can't do it anymore.

** _The guilt is eating away at him._ **

On the way home, Mary drives, and John stares out the window. He watches cars and buildings slip by with inattentive eyes. Beside him, Mary smiles and taps the steering wheel with her fingers.

"That was a great session." She says, breaking into his thoughts. John shifts and nods, still staring out of the window.

"Mhm." He hums, unblinking, and exhausted. Mary casts him a glance, her face shadowed. Shaking it off, she smiles again, this time with sympathy.

"Still not sleeping well?" She asks softly, and John nods, his lips numb.

"Yeah." He replies, pushing a finger against the cold window.

That evening, John sits in front of the fireplace with his son perched between his father's feet. Locklan shifts his attention from tugging at John's pants to banging a stuffed elephant against the floor. John watches him, noting the toddler's brown hair has begun to darken and curl around his ears and the base of his skull. He frowns and loops a finger through one of the curls, tugging. Locklan laughs in delight and grabs onto his father's wrist. Closing his eyes, John breathes sharply through his nose. Across the room, curled up on the sofa, Mary looks up from her book.

"Tired?" She asks, and he hears the concern in her voice. He looks over and shakes his head. Locklan tugs at his hand, pushing the stuffed elephant against his chest.

"No, I'm okay," John says. He looks around the room at his family and feels a faint flicker of hope deep in his chest.

_Maybe this is enough._

He smiles at his wife, a sudden change to his somber face. She smiles back, confused. John stands and scoops Locklan into his arms, the child protesting as the elephant is left behind. He walks to his wife, bending to plant a lingering kiss on her lips.

"Let's go away." He says, the idea slips from his mouth with the suddenness of impulsivity. "This weekend. We could go to the countryside. Stay in a bed and breakfast or a cottage. Whatever, let's just go." Mary looks up at him, bemused.

"Where did this come from?" She asks, surprised. John smiles and leans down to drop another light kiss on her mouth.

"I want to show you that this family _is_ still a priority." He murmurs, Mary's lips warm against his. He flashes back to Sherlock, a different mouth and a different face. John pushes the image away, touching his fingers to Mary's cheek. Trying to ground himself in the moment, he breathes her in. Lilac soap and hairspray. Feminine and utterly different from the smells plaguing him with guilt.

Mary grins up at him as he straightens, settling Locklan on his hip. The child makes a trilling noise, grabbing at John's shirt. "Dadda!" Locklan shouts, hands fisting in the checkered fabric. John smiles down at his son, eyes softening. The afterimage of Sherlock burnt into his eyes fades, replaced with his son's bright face.

"That's right, 'Lock." John hums, touching the tip of his finger to the toddler's nose. Locklan grins, a goofy parody of his mother's expression. Lifting the child, John presses his face into soft hair and closes his eyes.

_Surely, this must be enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #StuffedElephant


	27. Rarefaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is completely unacceptable, this level of emotion. He knows it, curses it, and still cannot reign it in. His carefully constructed walls, barriers, and façades are gone, torn down. He gave everything to John Watson with that kiss. He cannot bring himself back to how he was before, no matter how hard he claws at the past and his own skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered making this chapter longer, but decided to break what could be two longer chapters into two shorter chapters for some better storyline building. So I apologize that this chapter (and likely the next few) will appear rather short.

**[Friday Morning]**

Sherlock struggles with the fallout of his torn-apart heart. Discovers a new side of himself in the process. One that breaks apart in the early-morning light. Spreads tears over his face in an attempt at demolishing his furiously firing brain.

He feels ripped open and full of sentiment. A hateful mess.

On Friday morning, he stands and stares into the bathroom mirror. His large hands grasp the cold porcelain edge of the sink. White on white. His face stares back at him, pale and puffy, eyes sunken and dull.

_A hateful mess._

Sherlock bares his teeth at his reflection, jaw tense and hard. He turns away, leaving the bathroom with a headache pulsing through his temples.

_This is unacceptable._

It is completely unacceptable, this level of emotion. He knows it, curses it, and still cannot reign it in. His carefully constructed walls, barriers, and façades are gone, torn down. He gave everything to John Watson with that kiss. He cannot bring himself back to how he was before, no matter how hard he claws at the past and his own skin.

Moving into the kitchen, Sherlock fills the kettle, listening to the rumble as the water heats to a boil. Pouring the hot liquid, he curls his fingers around a warm mug and stands in front of the living room windows. Grey light outlines the rigidity of his angular face, his shaking hands. Sherlock looks out at the street, steam puffing up and warming his chin.

Maybe this is okay. Perhaps it is fine, it's _all fine_. He was alone before, why should it stand that he cannot be fine now, alone once more?

_Alone is what I have. _

Sherlock blows at the hot tea in his hands, letting the steam waft over his lips and cheeks. He watches people pass by the flat on the sidewalk below and clenches his jaw.

_Alone protects me._

Mycroft was right, caring is _not _an advantage, and here it is, the hard, awful proof of the statement. He finds the truth in his swollen eyes, his trembling hands and aching chest.

_No. Friends protect people._

John's words, echoing from a lifetime away. They whisper at the back of his mind; dig tiny, needling claws into his throat and heart.

"So much for friends," Sherlock mutters sourly. He sips at the tea and burns his tongue, ignores the sting and downs the hot liquid. He gasps at the sudden pain, dropping the mug onto the table. It tilts, dripping the dregs of dirty-brown water onto a colour photo on the table. Sherlock's eyes flick to it. They linger on the image of familiar faces. There he is, standing beside Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John. They stand poised in front of a festively-festooned fireplace, smiling before bright lights.

_Friends. _

Reaching out a trembling hand, Sherlock picks up the picture, stares down at it, and scowls. The expression softens, and he touches his fingertips to the wet image. Brushes over John's smiling face. Sighing, he wipes it against his robe, drying the glossy sheet with gentle care.

Placing the picture against the mantle, he admires the display. Turning away, he settles into his chair, a heavy sigh slipping from his lips. Grabbing a case file, he flips it open and peruses the contents with tired but focused eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #TeaTooHot


	28. Ratiocinate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During sleepless and breathless nights, John imagines how Sherlock would taste, coming in his mouth. How he might arch beneath him as John slips inside him. What sounds Sherlock might make when John thrusts deep and hard into his willing body.

**[Friday Morning]**

Friday dawns cold and grey. John putters his way through his morning routine before driving to the hospital. He feels a weight has lifted from his shoulders. Like he can almost comprehend the possibility of a light at the end of the tunnel. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he hears himself humming and smiles, touching his lips to confirm.

The expression falls from his face as he recalls lips against his. A long, lean body pressing him into the cold wall. The intense, mind-numbing sweep of lust as his mouth moved over Sherlock's skin.

John shivers and scowls. He shakes his head and wills the muscle memory away.

The panic attacks have lessened, gripping fear softened after that day at Baker Street. But guilt still twists knots in his stomach. That is what burns the most. The guilt. And the longing. The sheer, agonizing _yearning_ for Sherlock—for so much _more_. To his own horror, John finds himself lost in a fantasy. Wishing he had gone farther. That he could have broken his vows and lost himself in Sherlock without hesitation.

During sleepless and breathless nights, John imagines how Sherlock would taste, coming in his mouth. How he might arch beneath him as John slips inside him. What sounds Sherlock might make when John thrusts deep and hard into his willing body.

Pulling into the hospital parkade, John shakes himself. Banishes wishful thinking and fantasies. Stepping out of the Volkswagen, he shrugs into his jacket and closes the creaking, rusty car door with a slam. He looks at the old vehicle, rueful, and wondering why he keeps it. The clutch is starting to stick, holding the car between gears in brief, sputtering moments. A harsh, tinny rattle narrates the idling cycle. John places a fond hand on the roof, gathers his bag, and heads toward the stairs.

"Doctor Watson!"

The familiar voice pauses him at the door to the staircase. Holding it open, he turns to see Bennett jogging towards him in a grey bomber-style jacket. The intern pulls up before him, breathing heavily. His hair is mussed, face flushed from running.

"Bennett." John greets the younger man with a slow nod, letting the intern precede him into the stairwell. Walking down the stairs together, the sounds of their footsteps echo back at them from the concrete walls. John finds himself studying the man keeping pace with him.

Aside from their student-physician relationship, John does not interact with Bennett much. Recently, the intern seems to show up in the most unlikely of places. John often feels watched and turns to find Bennett.

As if feeling John's eyes on him now, Bennett lifts his head and offers a hesitant, if confused, smile.

"Good morning so far, Doctor Watson?" He asks, and his voice is uncertain, uncomfortable. John narrows his eyes, noting the tone and the look.

“Fine." He replies, studying the intern's face with intense eyes, brows lowered.

Bennett clears his throat, looking away as they descend from the parkade. "Everything… okay?" The words are slow, questioning.

John looks away as well, staring ahead and pushing open the door to the ground floor.

"Fine." He repeats. "See you for rounds." Turning away, he walks toward the hospital, hoping to leave Bennett behind him. But the intern follows. He runs up and grabs John's elbow. John rocks back on his heels in surprise, twisting his head to frown at the other man. Bennett's sheepish smile slips off his face, replaced with a look of recoil at John's sharp eyes.

"Sorry," he apologizes, dropping his hand back to his side. "I just—are you okay, Doctor Watson?" Bennett meets John's eyes; flushes red at the intensity. "You seem… you don't seem okay."

"I'm _fine_, Bennett." John sighs and passes a hand over his tired eyes. "I'll see you at rounds." He says again, hurrying to catch the elevator before the doors slide shut. The two nurses inside nod to him, a gesture he returns. As the doors slide shut, he catches sight of Bennett staring at him, his expression thoughtful.

John leans back against the wall of the elevator. He watches the numbers tick away as they rise to higher floors. He no longer feels the lightness he experienced during his commute. Instead, his head swims and aches.

He finds his thoughts drifting away again. Returning, as always, to Sherlock. He bites his lip, imaging that long, slender body under his hands.

His leg hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #BennettBeErrywhere


	29. Rigidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had he felt peaceful, mere moments ago? Had he thought he could handle such a thing in the aftermath of John Watson? Had he actually told himself he could live without John in his life?

**[Friday Evening]**

After struggling with and settling his turbulent emotions, Sherlock seeks out Mrs. Hudson. He knocks on her door and drops apologies upon her like verbal gifts. In her cozy flat, at the small table in her kitchen, they sit across from one another. Tea in hand, brushing biscuit crumbs from his shoulder, Sherlock listens as she tells him of a conversation with her sister. Of the ache in her hip from the colder weather. How she is glad he is finally feeling more like himself.

“And John?” She asks, casual. Sherlock stirs sugar into his tea, keeping his eyes on the swirling liquid. When he doesn’t speak, Mrs. Hudson reaches out and gently touches her fingers to the back of his hand. Sherlock stops stirring and looks at her. Smiling, she adds: “I heard him here the other week. I thought you might be making up.” At Sherlock’s quiet scoff, she pats his hand, continuing. “But then he slammed the front door so hard that one of my pictures fell off the wall, so I’m guessing that isn’t what happened.”

Sherlock sighs, dropping the small spoon against the edge of his mug. “No, we did not ‘make up.’” He says, his voice quiet as he stares into the cup. Mrs. Hudson sips at her tea and sits back in her chair.

“That’s too bad.” She says softly, watching Sherlock pick at his nails and frown down at the table. She places a kind hand over his, stilling the self-destructive action. “Sherlock, I know John was a big part of your life, but maybe he isn’t anymore.” She holds up a hand as Sherlock starts to interrupt. “And maybe he will be again in the future, I don’t know. But I know you deserve better than this, and you have to _let_ yourself have that.” Patting his hand again, she sits back, watching him. “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself.”

Sherlock stares at his hands, at the torn, messy edges of his nails, the raw, bleeding cuticles. Curling his fingers into his palms, he looks at Mrs. Hudson, a slight smile on his lips.

“Thank you.” He says, awkward, but the message genuine. Sitting there in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, he feels peaceful for the first time in weeks. The first time since he came home and surprised John on that rainy night. Since he demonstrated to John how much he wanted him in his life and was turned away.

“You’re welcome, dear.” Mrs. Hudson replies, returning the smile from across the table.

They sit, connected, and comfortable until Mrs. Hudson rises to gather the cups and bring them to the sink. Sherlock stands as well, carrying the sugar bowl and creamer to the counter.

A knock at the door startles them both, and they look at one another, confused. Mrs. Hudson moves to answer the intrusion, and Lestrade steps into the room, panting, face, and hair wet with rain.

“Sherlock,” he gasps, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. They are wide and red-rimmed, and there’s a strange edge to the Detective-Inspector’s voice.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock walks to the man, Mrs. Hudson sliding away to give them space. “What are you doing here?”

“Went up to your flat, but you weren’t there,” Lestrade explains. “I thought I’d try here, in case Mrs. Hudson knew where you were.” Sherlock tilts his head and wonders how he missed the sound of Lestrade walking up the stairs to his own flat. He pushes the thought away, refocusing on the soaked man. He again notes the redness of Lestrade’s eyes and the way his hands shake with more than cold.

“What is it?” He asks with fear dawning deep in his chest like the birth of a black hole. A black hole threatening to consume him as Lestrade shakes his head, spreading his hands helplessly.

“It’s—Sherlock, it’s not good.” Lestrade spits out, shivering in his rain-darkened clothes. He drips on Mrs. Hudson’s carpet and stares at Sherlock like a man facing the firing squad.

“Tell me, Lestrade,” Sherlock demands, the words sharp. Lestrade clears his throat, looking Sherlock in the eyes.

“It’s John.”

Sherlock’s stomach drops. The black hole devours every remnant of the peace he felt just short moments ago. Shaking and slow, he reaches out. Sherlock presses the palm of one trembling hand against the wall, legs weak, and his face pale.

“What happened?” He asks, hardly recognizing his voice as it reaches his ears from what feels like a vast, terrifying distance. He feels outside of himself. Floating, cast away from his own body. Lestrade’s voice seems to emerge from the same range, absolute lightyears away, small and tinny inside Sherlock’s ringing head.

“There’s been a car accident.” Lestrade’s hand is on him, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock? You there?” Tentative fingers, cold and damp, press to his neck, feeling for a pulse as Sherlock stares blankly ahead, his eyes wide and fixed. He sucks in a long, shallow breath, feeling it swirl inside his empty, cracked-open chest.

“Yeah,” he replies, catching Lestrade’s sigh of relief even as the world seems to crash down around him. “Yeah, I’m here.” His head snaps up, and he clears his throat, straightening as strength flows back into his legs. “Can you—can you take me to—to—” he shakes his head. Loses track of the words and looks at Lestrade wordlessly.

Lestrade is nodding and handing Sherlock his jacket. “Yeah, come on, the cruiser’s outside. I’ll fill you in on the way.” His lips quirk, a humourless attempt at levity slipping from his mouth: “I won’t even make you ride in the back this time.”

Sherlock disregards the comment and turns to Mrs. Hudson. They look at one another with dull eyes, and he can see his terror reflected in her tense face.

“Go, Sherlock.” She says, a wet sheen to her gentle eyes. “You need to go.”

Sherlock nods. He pulls her in for a quick hug and turns to follow Lestrade, who is already standing out in the landing, holding the front door open. They walk to the cruiser, ducking into the pouring rain, and slipping into the car.

Sherlock settles into the passenger seat, shaking droplets from his hair. He stares out the window, listening to Lestrade mutter directions to himself as the police cruiser rumbles to life. Sherlock locks his hands around the seat, his body rigid as he sits like a mannequin, stiff and inflexible.

Had he felt peaceful, mere moments ago? Had he thought he could handle such a thing in the aftermath of John Watson? Had he actually told himself he could live without John in his life?

As much as he fights against the terrible thought, Sherlock feels he may be about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #PeepThatPatheticFallacy


	30. Ruinous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s life has progressed in an unorthodox system of stop and starts. Breakdowns and breakthroughs. Aside from that fateful day in Afghanistan, nothing else has drastically changed his life since Sherlock jumped from the rooftop of Bart’s. He feels like this here, this moment might be a gamechanger, and one for the best.
> 
> **TW: this chapter contains a depiction of a car accident. While there is no outright gore, it may be triggering for someone who has experienced a car accident. Please read only if comfortable.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost didn't include this scene, mostly because I struggled with whether or not I wanted the story to move in this direction. I wrote this scene several days ago, well before the last 10 or so chapters. After a lot of thought, I decided this would be the plot I chose. Thank you everyone who has stuck with the story so far, and I apologize for the MASS amounts of angst so far.

**[Friday Evening]**

As the day draws to an end, John gathers his things and slips out of his office. Rushing, he hopes he can avoid running into anyone on his way out (see: Bennett and his constant concern).

He succeeds in his avoidance, sliding into the old Volkswagen. With a sigh and that same smile he drove into work with, he starts the old car and turns to back out of the parking space. The vehicle moves slowly, rattling, and grinds to a stop with the sound of caught gears. John curses, coaxing the car out of its premature stall with encouraging words and gentle pressure on the clutch. The Volkswagen groans and shudders but stays running. Finally, on his way home, he shifts his focus toward weekend plans.

After the conversation in front of the fire, John booked a cottage for the weekend. Once he arrives home, he and Mary will load the car. They will buckle Locklan into his car seat, and head for the countryside and, he hopes, calmer waters.

The drive home is tedious, and he jitters with excess energy. John can’t help it. He has placed this trip as a turning point and cannot help but believe things will only get better from here.

He arrives home. Sweeps his son into his arms and kisses Mary in the doorway, long and slow, returning her smile when they part. They load overnight bags into the old Volkswagen and secure Locklan into his complicated car seat. John slips into the driver’s seat, and Mary settles beside him, laughing as she programs the GPS on her phone. The Volkswagen runs like an unexpected dream, and head for the countryside.

There is a lightness between them that John feels deep in his bones. He knows Mary echoes the feeling by the ways she smiles at him and rests her hand on his knee during the drive. Locklan babbles in his car seat, random words interspersed with _Momma!_ and _Dadda_! John feels tension slip from his shoulders even as they cross beyond the edges of London.

John’s life has progressed in an unorthodox system of stop and starts. Breakdowns and breakthroughs. Aside from that fateful day in Afghanistan, nothing else has drastically changed his life since Sherlock jumped from the rooftop of Bart’s. He feels like this here, this moment might be a gamechanger, and one for the best.

It only takes a single incident to change that. One moment of pure unluck to rip apart the careful life he has built post-Sherlock Holmes. A life he almost lost through his own careless fingers, one he hopes to grab onto and never release.

Here is how it happens: fast. Blindingly, achingly, awfully fast.

They are in the car, that ancient, rattling beast. The three of them all together as a family.

One last time.

They are talking. Laughing and sharing in a blissful moment. John is making a turn, inching his way onto the road.

John looks at Mary, who is looking at Locklan as he fidgets happily in the seat behind her. Their eyes meet, blissful husband and wife for a moment more. Two parents joyous in the existence of their shared child.

Halfway through the turn, the Volkswagen stalls. The engine sputters and coughs. Grinds to a halt and rattles one last time before falling silent. John curses, rolling his eyes as he fights with the gearbox, trying to push the vehicle back into life.

Mary shakes her head, and Locklan throws his hands up in the air, a loud giggle erupting from his open mouth.

John will remember this, remember them precisely like this, in the days to come. The days and nights. The absolute, impenetrable darkness.

The truck comes out of nowhere. It barrels into the stalled car like a freight train. It hits the passenger side, crumpling the old, rusted metal with little effort. The impact pushes John against the driver’s side door as the car tilts, rolls, and careens on its side. His head hits against cheap vinyl and cheaper, peeling leather as the car flips. Onto its roof, its side, and back to its beaten, dented rims.

The car goes still. They all go still and red and dark and black.

When he wakes, there is noise. So much noise and sound and sights. Sirens and voices. Lights flashing blue and red and blue again.

“John!”

The voice is desperate, pleading, and harsh.

His head rolls against broken glass, and he feels hot blood running down the back of his neck.

Chaos. Chaos and pain, and too many sounds.

There is a shape in the seat beside him, a form that doesn’t move. A figure resting unnaturally still against cracked leather.

John stares and feels himself slipping away. There are hands on him, feeling his face and his neck. He is slipping away, careening into darkness.

_Mary. _

_Locklan._

_Please don’t._

_Please._

The darkness rears over him. Engulfs encompasses and extinguishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No hashtags for this one.


	31. Residual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stares at the emptiness in John's face. An ache builds inside his chest, strangling his breathing and forcing air from his lungs. His face feels warm, eyes burning, and there's a strange, inhuman sound filling his ears. He looks around wildly, searching for the source of the noise—is it John? —and realizes the sound is coming from him when Lestrade grabs him by the shoulder and tries to turn him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this chapter took me longer to write than I meant it to, as I was watching the Canadian federal election.

The police cruiser pulls up to the hospital, seconds behind the ambulance. The emergency vehicle swings into the parking lot, stopping in the ambulance bay. Lestrade parks the car off to the side, lights flashing and sirens silent. Beside him, Sherlock throws the door open, lunging out of the passenger seat like a bullet from a gun. Lestrade jogs behind, face set in tense lines of stress.

Sherlock reaches the ambulance first, hovering outside the rear doors as they swing open. Doctors rush forward as paramedics slide a stretcher out the back doors, compact wheels unfolding to meet the ground. A doctor turns to address Sherlock. Her words wash over him in silence, all his attention focused on the form on the gurney. Beside him, Lestrade shakes his head at the doctor, flashes his badge, and says something.

Sherlock hardly notices. Barely sees Lestrade. He only cares about John, his focus narrowing like a laser, cataloguing, and assessing.

Strapped to a spine board, John lays rigid on his back, head held still by a neck collar, and immobilized by the board. Thick, white straps loop over his chest and hips, holding him in place. Sherlock notes all of this, trying to sort everything into neat observational niches, but finds himself staring at John's face.

Blood smears across John's cheek, darkening light hair and dripping down his neck. He is awake, eyes open, but stares at nothing and no one. John blinks, as a paramedic presses gauze to a jagged cut across his cheekbone.

Sherlock stares at the emptiness in John's face. An ache builds inside his chest, strangling his breathing and forcing air from his lungs. His face feels warm, eyes burning, and there's a strange, inhuman sound filling his ears. He looks around wildly, searching for the source of the noise—_is it John?_ —and realizes the sound is coming from him when Lestrade grabs him by the shoulder and tries to turn him away.

He is whimpering, a harsh, high sound slipping from his lips. A pathetic keening between desperate gasps for air as he grabs at nothing. He is mindless, overwhelmed, and helpless.

Lestrade locks an arm across Sherlock's chest, hauling him away from the ambulance. Sherlock struggles and jerks against the older man, but Lestrade maintains his grip. Lestrade turns the hysterical detective toward him and gives him a rough shake.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice is loud and firm. "Calm down!"

Sucking in a shaking, gasping breath, Sherlock falls limp. A powerful tremor rips through his limbs. Lestrade pulls him into a tight embrace, his own eyes wide and damp. "It'll be okay. John will be okay."

Sherlock sinks into the comfort as a heavy numbness sweeps through his body and drops into his bones. The two men stand beside the cruiser, blue and red lights painted across their faces. Reflecting the tears on their cheeks. Sherlock finally straightens, and Lestrade's arms fall to his sides as he takes a cautious step back. Sherlock watches the ambulance pull away, making way for two more silent rigs.

"Come on," Lestrade says, his voice thick and gentle as he lays a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's go inside."

Staring at the new ambulances, Sherlock nods his head, allowing himself to be led away.

He and Lestrade were both at the crash site. They know there is no use waiting around. This is a formality, a following of procedure.

An image rises in his mind: a small, compact car, crushed and crumpled on the passenger side. John slumped against the steering wheel, unresponsive and limp. The crunch of metal on metal as the first responders cut his body from the wreckage. Loud voices and the whoop of sirens as paramedics converged upon three figures.

John lying on his back, eyes closed, blood down his face and soaking into the collar of his shirt. The faces of his wife and child, pale and slack.

Sherlock remembers John opening his eyes, blue and confused. Hears the echo of John screaming, fists clenching and rising with panic and adrenaline. The paramedics trying to soothe him, struggling to keep John still for fear of spinal injury.

The ambulance doors swing open as he and Lestrade round the corner, heading for the entrance. Sherlock doesn't pause to look behind him.

There is no need. Only a doctor can call time of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #GoodGuyLestrade


	32. Redacted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John turns his head, slow and robotic, and stares at the dark windows. "I can't leave." A muscle jumps in his jaw and he flinches as the movement pulls at bruised skin. "I have to… there are papers I have to sign." His words die away, and he seems to collapse into himself, knees giving away as his face crumples. If not for Lestrade stepping forward and grabbing his good arm, he would have hit the floor.
> 
> John thinks he might have laid there for the rest of his life, empty inside and bursting with pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I said I'd update eventually. Sorry for the wait and for the short chapter.

The trauma doctor's words wash over John as he sits on the edge of a trauma bed, legs hanging over the side. He responds with absent nods and mumbled words in what he assumes is the right places, checked-out.

The doctor pats him gentle, awkward hands on the shoulder and indicates that he is ready to go. John doesn't move. He sits and stares into an abyss only he can see, one that rises and ebbs like a destructive wave.

"Mister Watson? I need you to move, we need the bed."

_It's _Doctor_ Watson, actually. _

John thinks the words, but nothing emerges from his mouth, and he stands with shaky legs. The doctor smiles at him, holding out a package of small white pills. "For the pain." He explains and indicates John's arm. John twitches and looks to his left side. Tied against his side, his arm hangs in a splint. With vague attention, John notes a sharp, grating pain in his bad shoulder. He nods and takes the pills with his free hand. The doctor smiles and strides away, leaving John standing in the middle of a bustling ER.

Movements slow, John crosses the room, avoiding nurses and gurneys as they rush past him. He slips the pills into his pocket, movements jerky and awkward. Reaching the door, John pushes into it with his good side, stepping into an empty waiting area. He stops, standing in the middle of the silent room, his face blank and eyes locked in a distant stare.

"John?" A hesitant voice behind him. He turns, looking with a dull face at an older man with short, greying hair.

"Lestrade," John says, not a question, not a greeting, merely an acknowledgment.

The DI's eyes skate over John, taking in the stabilized arm, bruises, and plasters. He looks back to John's face, meeting his eyes for a moment, before looking away, unnerved by the emptiness there.

"Are you… how are…" Lestrade spreads his hands, helpless. John stares above his head and speaks in a voice void of inflection.

"I'm fine. Broken arm, a mild concussion. Bruises. Whiplash." He lists the injuries as if reading a dull report. "I'm fine." He says again, looking anything but. Lestrade shifts his feet and rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.

"Listen, John… about… Mary and Locklan—"

"I know." John interrupts. A slight edge creeps into his voice, the first hint of emotion tingeing his stiff face.

Lestrade clears his throat. "Do you want to… go somewhere? We can talk…"

John turns his head, slow and robotic, and stares at the dark windows. "I can't leave." A muscle jumps in his jaw and he flinches as the movement pulls at bruised skin. "I have to… there are papers I have to sign." His words die away, and he seems to collapse into himself, knees giving away as his face crumples. If not for Lestrade stepping forward and grabbing his good arm, he would have hit the floor.

John thinks he might have laid there for the rest of his life, empty inside and bursting with pain.

"Come on." Lestrade pulls John by his elbow, leading him towards a sitting area. He guides the other man onto an ugly vinyl couch, and John sinks into the cushion like a rock, face haggard. He covers his eyes with his good hand as Lestrade sits to his left in a stiff chair. John's back trembles with silent sobs, tears slipping from beneath his shaking fingers. Lestrade mumbles comforting words; lays a heavy hand on John's shoulder as the other man falls to pieces, unravelling and coming undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #GoodGuyLestrade


	33. Rudimentary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling Lestrade watching them, Sherlock looks up to catch the DI's surprised expression. He stares back until Lestrade shrugs with a slight smile, understanding spreading over his face.
> 
> “Ah," Lestrade says, keeping his voice soft as John trembles in his sleep. "So, it's like that."
> 
> Sherlock looks at him, his face unabashed and rigid. "Yes," he replies, voice hard. "It is."

Returning with coffee in hand, Sherlock pauses outside the waiting room. Inside, John stands like a crumbling pillar, his face heavy and blank. Sherlock's eyes flick over every inch of that familiar form, taking in the splinted arm. Deductions rumble through his head like thunder. _Arm likely broken, given the tenderness with which John holds it against his body. _ He takes in the bandages and dark, shadowed bruises that mark John's jaw and cheek. The clear signs of seatbelt rash and whiplash darken the skin of his neck.

As Sherlock takes in every minute detail and mark of the crash upon John's body, the pillar finally falls. Sherlock sucks in a hard breath that whistles through his clenched jaw, watching Lestrade catch John. Sherlock hovers in the hall, watching John's breakdown and Lestrade's attempts at comfort.

When John slumps into the chair with exhaustion, Sherlock finally approaches. Lestrade looks up and takes the Styrofoam coffee cup Sherlock offers him. Sherlock stares at John and Lestrade looks at him with gentle pity.

"He's asleep." His brow furrows. "I think?" Leaning forward, the DI holds the back of his hand in front of John's nose, nodding at the feeling of soft breathing. "Must be exhausted." He sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock stays standing, watching John sleep. John's face is drawn and pale, mouth tense, even while asleep. As John begins to tilt to one side, limp body sagging against the couch, Sherlock settles into the empty seat. He cradles John's head with gentle hands until it rests on his legs. John shifts in his sleep, twisting his body sideways and drawing his legs up off the floor. He curls into himself, head resting in Sherlock's lap, and whimpers, his face pained. Sherlock drapes his arm along John's side and cards shaking fingers through John's blood-darkened hair. John falls silent, mouth open as he breathes in slow, even breaths. His body shivers with the occasional tremour, and Sherlock soothes him with gentle hands.

Feeling Lestrade watching them, Sherlock looks up to catch the DI's surprised expression. He stares back until Lestrade shrugs with a slight smile, understanding spreading over his face.

“Ah," Lestrade says, keeping his voice soft as John trembles in his sleep. "So, it's like that."

Sherlock looks at him, his face unabashed and rigid. "Yes," he replies, voice hard. "It is."

Lestrade nods, leaning back in his chair. "I always wondered." He looks at Sherlock's hands, one gripping John's side as the other carefully separates short strands of hair from stiff, half-dried blood. Lestrade watches them for a moment, silent before his phone jingles and he grabs at it. "Excuse me." Standing, he strides from the room, slipping into the hall and closing the door behind him.

John tenses in his sleep, at the noise. A tremor glides through his frame, lips turning down at the corners in a tight grimace. Sherlock pulls him closer and strokes his fingertips along John's cheek. John sighs, face falling slack, and slips into a deeper sleep. His cheek nestles against Sherlock's thigh, good hand wrapping loosely around Sherlock's leg.

Staring down at the man cradled against his body, Sherlock feels his chest tighten and constrict. John breathes against his stomach, and Sherlock feels a flood release inside him. Warmth flows through to his bones, replacing a cold he long ago ceased to feel.

Sitting in the cold room, darkness leaching through the windows, John curls into Sherlock, and the world's only consulting detective feels earth-shatteringly whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SoIt'sLikeThat


	34. Rending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stays still, Sherlock's legs firm and stable beneath his scattered head, and waits. He waits for the familiar surge of anger. For the inevitable guilt to tear him away from a place he never wants to move from.
> 
> From a place that feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long to post, I've been drowning in homework the past couple of days.

John wakes the way someone emerges from underwater. Smooth and silent, head slipping above the waves of sleep as if from heavy fog. John opens his eyes to bright, white light and the acrid smell of antiseptic filling his nose. His view presents a sideways waiting room, and he slowly notices an almost uncomfortable heat against him. Turning his head, wincing at the whiplash ache in his neck, John looks up. Find a familiar face, and dark curls, pale skin and closed eyes.

Head tilted back, fingers clutching John's side, Sherlock Holmes dozes. His sharp, angular face looks softer in sleep, and John can feel Sherlock's breathing against his back.

John stays still, Sherlock's legs firm and stable beneath his scattered head, and waits. He waits for the familiar surge of anger. For the inevitable guilt to tear him away from a place he never wants to move from.

From a place that feels like home.

It doesn't come. John steels himself for the things he knows he should feel, and encounters a void, spreading within him. There is an ache in his chest, of absence, and he sucks in a breath that feels like choking.

Sherlock stirs at the noise and John freezes, staring at his face. He holds his breath, hoping the detective will slip back into sleep. Instead, sharp blue eyes slide open and dim briefly with confusion, before focusing on John's face. They look at one another, and the moment seems to stretch; to warp and skew their shared sense of time.

"Mister Watson?"

A voice breaks into the moment, shattering the silent connection. John starts, head whipping around to see the trauma doctor from last night standing a few feet away. He winces at the pain in his neck and makes a soft sound of pain. John struggles to sit up, and Sherlock's hands rise to assist, falling away as John moves upright, staring at him. Sherlock looks away, face closing off, and shifts further over to his side of the couch. John feels the warmth moving away and has to tear his eyes away to look at the doctor.

"Yes?" He replies, settling his injured arm against his side with a visible wince. Beside him, Sherlock's hands twitch, but he clasps them together in his lap, and they fall still.

"We need you to sign off on…" the trauma doctor keeps his face carefully composed. _He's well trained_, John thinks, realizing this isn't the first time he has had to deliver life-changing to a family member. He feels the pit of his stomach drop away, consumed by the growing void inside his chest. John stands and interrupts him.

"It's Doctor Watson." He says, shifting his feet together and straightening, military training falling into place. "And I already know what you're going to say."

The trauma doctor nods. He looks deeply relieved and unsettled at the sight of the man before him, standing rigid and rim-rod straight, head tilting upwards at a sharp, commanding angle.

"If you'll follow me this way," the trauma doctor invites, turning to indicate a set of doors. John steps after him before pausing to look back. Sherlock watches him with steady eyes, sitting on the couch with severe posture. John is forcibly reminded of the night they sat in John's car after Sherlock returned from the dead. He shakes his head, shivers, and turns away to follow the trauma doctor.

Standing between two cold, metal tables, John looks down at still forms covered with thin white sheets. One is adult-sized. The other is much smaller—too small. John stares down at the still, empty faces and feels a tight clenching deep in his body. When it releases, he feels a sick, empty pang flood in to take its place. Raising a hand, John brushes the tips of his fingers over Mary's pale face, along a distorted cheekbone.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, grabbing at the table as his legs go loose. "I'm sorry I wasn't better." He tilts at the waist to press his forehead to hers. He stands like that for a moment, shaking as slick tears run down his face.

When John finally straightens, he pulls in a heavy breath, feeling it fill his lungs and expand his chest. He doesn't want to turn around, doesn't want to look at the smaller form. But John can't stop himself. He needs to do this. Has to.

He stares down at the small face, at the hair curling around the ears. John lifts a shaking hand and brushes a lock away from his son's cold forehead. His heart lurches in his chest and. This time, when his legs start to give way, he lets them, sinking down to the floor. He holds Locklan's tiny hand in his and allows himself to fall to pieces.

After signing papers and making arrangements for cremation, John is sent back into the main floor of the hospital. In his right hand is a bag of effects.

Three years of life with his family. With Mary, with their son, reduced to a single plastic bag of clothes, a wallet. Keys and pocket lint.

John pauses outside the waiting room, hovering in the hallway and looking within. People with bowed heads and tense faces wait inside, eyes unfixed.

By the exit, Sherlock stands facing away, his hands clasped together behind his back. John hesitates before striding into the room, plastic bag swinging against his leg. Sherlock turns at his approach, eyes strange and face unreadable.

John keeps walking, keep moving forward, unstoppable, only pausing briefly beside the detective. Grabbing Sherlock's arm, he whispers, "If you'd stayed away, stayed gone. Stayed out of my life. Maybe I'd have been a better husband and father." He pauses, breathing air that is too heavy and sterile to ease the dizziness in his head. "…and, if I'd been those things, they wouldn't be dead now."

He releases Sherlock's arm, and their hands brush as he moves away. The contact sends a jolt through John's body, and he clenches his jaw, shoving the feeling away. He walks through the waiting room doors into the main floor of the hospital. Out into the parking lot and the cold air. Tilting his head, John looks into the brightening morning sky, the void inside his chest rising up to consume him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Empty


	35. Rotational

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock closes his eyes tight, trying to push that mental image into reality.
> 
> When he opens them again, everything is the same and Mrs. Hudson is looking at him with concern.  
  
John still hates him. John's family is still dead. Sherlock is still alone. Always alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapters are coming much slower right now. School and due dates are killing my inspiration, and the angst is a bit of a slog at the moment. Thanks to everyone who is still with me, and I PROMISE shit will lighten up soon.
> 
> Y'all the best.

Sherlock stands where John left him, shoulders sagging in defeat. John's words ring through his head, ricocheting off the walls of his Mind Palace. Wreak havoc and tear down every last wall he ever built between himself and everyone else. 

In one fell swoop, John reduces him to rubble. 

Raising his head, Sherlock catches Lestrade's eye. Standing off to the side, the DI looks at Sherlock with a heavy expression on his face. Sherlock drops his eyes, all the warmth inside him slipping away to leave his bones cold and his chest barren.

Feeling drained dry and powder-light, Sherlock stares at his feet. No matter what he does, it is not enough. It is never enough. He believes he would die for John Watson, willingly and without hesitation. _Has _died for John, in a way. What if he were to fall now? Sherlock thinks John would let him. Maybe not the old John, _his_ John, but this new one? 

This John, the one filled with hurt and black, shattered anger... Sherlock thinks _this_ John might even give him a push.

A hand on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks up to find Lestrade at his side.

"You okay?" The older man asks, and Sherlock stares, searching his face. His lips twitch, curving down at the corners, and he snorts.

"I'm great," Sherlock mutters. "Just _great_." He sighs and looks sideways at the DI. "What do I _do?_" He spreads his hands, palms up, helpless. He _feels_ helpless, hating the sharp-edged emotions tearing through his chest. Lestrade shrugs, pushing his own hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"I don't know." He admits. "I…I'm sorry, but I don't know."

Sherlock shoves his fingers through his hair, tangled and clumped from sleep. He rolls his shoulders and straightens his body, face haggard. Looking at Lestrade, he shrugs, staring up at the ceiling and the bright lights that dig into his eyes.

"Me neither." He admits, letting out a harsh, mirthless laugh.

"Yeah, okay." Lestrade shakes his head, reaching out to touch the detective's shoulder. "Come on—I'll give you a ride back to Baker Street."

Sherlock nods, silent. They fall into step, Sherlock's hands twitching at his sides. As Lestrade guides the cruiser into passing traffic, Sherlock stares at his hands. Remembers John sleeping against him, curling into Sherlock in his sleep. Flexing his fingers, he winds them into tight fists, eyes dark. He digs his nails into his palms and feels a sharp sting as blood wells up from the shallow cuts. 

They sit in silence as Lestrade navigates London streets, finally pulling up to the curb outside of 221B. He brings the car to an idle and looks out the window, Sherlock silent and still beside him. The detective feels the older man's eyes on his hands. When he looks down, a trickle of blood curls along the side of his pinky. He wipes his hand on his jacket and looks back to Lestrade. The DI raises an eyebrow before speaking.

"Look, Sherlock. I know it's not my place, but you're both my friends and…" He sighs and rubs a rough hand across his face, looking exhausted. "I know John is angry, but soon he is going to need a friend." Lestrade looks Sherlock in the eyes, face set in harsh lines. "He's going to need _you_, Sherlock. Last time, when you weren't here, when we thought you were dead, it was bad. John was—well, he was bad." He frowns as Sherlock looks down at his hands and the red smeared across his fingers. "John is going to need you, even if he doesn't want to, and I hope you'll be there for him when he figures that out." Lestrade lapses into silence, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Finished your little speech, have you?" He mutters, tracing a fingertip along the nail marks in his bleeding palm. Lestrade sighs and opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock continues, cutting him off. "Don't worry, Lestrade," He levels the DI with a hard stare. "I won't disappear again."

Lestrade watches him for a moment, thoughtful, before finally nodding. Sherlock feels the other man's eyes on him as he opens the car door and steps out onto the sidewalk. It is cold and foggy, and the mist clings to his curls and coat as he stands outside of the car. 

When he enters the building, Mrs. Hudson is waiting for him outside her door. She looks at his face, taking in the defeat draped across his slumped shoulders. Her face tightens, and she moves forward to wrap her arms around him. They stand in silence, a long, tense moment before she gestures for him to follow her into her flat.

With Mrs. Hudson seated across from him, Sherlock is struck by a feeling of deja vu. He half expects Lestrade to burst into the room, for all this to have been a dream. He longs to wake up with John curled against him with the sound of rain pattering against the windows, warm and safe in a world of their own.

Sherlock closes his eyes tight, trying to push that mental image into reality.

When he opens them again, everything is the same and Mrs. Hudson is looking at him with concern.

John still hates him. John's family is still dead. Sherlock is still alone. Always alone.

Sherlock shakes his head and forces a small, empty smile onto his face for Mrs. Hudson. As they sit together, she gently cleans and bandages his hands, pressing kind fingers to the cuts as she wraps gauze around his palms. 

Sitting across from her, lost in heavy thought, Sherlock re-evaluates his earlier perceptions. He isn't alone, not really. He is simply missing a part of himself, one he wasn't aware of before John Watson came into his life. Now he feels the loss as if his very lungs were torn away, creating a hole into which air whistles, leaving him gasping and breathless.

Sherlock looks at the bandages on his hands and wonders at the changes three years of mistakes can bring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #DigDeeper


	36. Repolarization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tremour in his hand and the limp in his step throws him back to five years ago, and John digs his nails into his leg in an attempt to stop the flashbacks. Images, old and new, flash through his head. They rip open his heart and draw pain and black ichor, into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Well I came home  
like a stone,  
and I fell heavy  
into your arms"_
> 
> **-Mumford and Sons**

The days after the accident, pass in a hazed blur. A red-tinged darkness John spends buried beneath the covers, huddled in the dark. Blankets pulled over his head and empty noise filtering through his mouth.

John lives in a dark house once filled with sounds, now made empty. Boyish giggles, the trill of a woman's tones; his own happiness and deception. He sits on the edge of an empty bed, blankets tangled into a mass behind him. Hands draped between his knees, head hanging, John watches life pass by.

After the first few days, he stops answering the door. People knock and disappear. Eventually, they stop coming by. After a week, John no longer answers the phone. He throws it across the room and aches in the ensuing silence.

By the second week, his face is gaunt and haunted in the mirror. He leaves the lights off at night, his only company a small bottle of pain pills that he holds like a lifeline.

Finally, a night comes when the sound of his own head eclipses the silence of the house. John tears at his skin, shifting his broken arm in a painful, wrenching gesture as he pushes him against the floor with an agonized whimper. He fists his fingers in his hair and pulls until the roots wrench at his scalp.

The tremour in his hand and the limp in his step throws him back to five years ago, and John digs his nails into his leg in an attempt to stop the flashbacks. Images, old and new, flash through his head. They rip open his heart and draw pain and black ichor, into his mouth.

Afghanistan. Bart's. The crash. The rattle of gunfire. Sherlock's white, blood-spattered face. The crush of metal and the wail of sirens.

The stillness of bodies beneath white sheets.

John finally staggers to his feet, eyes simultaneously dull and sharp with trauma and pain medication. He moves through the house like a ghost to push open the front door and walk into a frigid downpour.

The rain runs down his face and over his body. Soaks into his thin t-shirt and faded jeans, drawing ice across his skin. He lurches down the driveway with panic and disassociation flashing across his face.

John walks from the house he once shared with his family. Rain soaks through his clothes, and he shivers and shakes with the pain and cold ripping through him.

Losing track of how long he walks, John stumbles into city limits, wincing at the London lights. Cabs and cars pass by, and he stumbles along the sidewalk, splinted arm clutched to his body. The buzz of the painkillers numb his brain, making everything appear faded and blurry. The rain pours down on him in a deluge of ice. John's feet take him onwards, muscle memory pushing him toward a final destination.

When his feet bring him to Baker Street, he hovers on the sidewalk outside, looking up at the familiar façade. He walks to the door and hesitates, uncertainty pinning his feet in place. Raising his arm, he presses the palm of his right hand to the old, dark wood.

When he finally knocks, there is a long stretch of silence before the door swings open. Sherlock stands in the doorway, hand balanced on the doorknob, and seems frozen in time. John stares at him, swaying on his feet. He steps forward, shivering. When he reaches out, his wildly searching hand encounters palms rough with gauze. Sherlock grips John's fingers with tenuous strength, his own hands quivering.

"Sherlock." John breathes, shaking like an earthquake. Eyes rolling up into his head, he crumples at Sherlock's feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #LikeAStone


	37. Ratify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't how Sherlock imagined seeing John naked for the first time, but he adapts to the scenario. He keeps his eyes on John's face as the other man shivers and trembles in the hot water. There is nothing sexual about the moment and not something Sherlock would have ever expected. Nonetheless, he feels a flash of gratitude as he realizes that John has come here, to him, for help. John came home, knowing Sherlock would not turn him away—just as Lestrade had said he would. Sherlock sits and aches at the pain he sees etched into the dark shadows under John's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks! We might actually (FINALLY) be nearing the end here. This might be the second to last chapter, but I can't promise that just yet.
> 
> Also, if you want to validate my procrastination, I created a spotify playlist for this fic. You can find it here:  
https://open.spotify.com/user/rage_nation/playlist/4QN8w3PXJtbaX9lIUMar12?si=LnghhqxtRZuv77RmlgJubg
> 
> FYI, this chapter felt like it took 500 days to write, and I'm so sorry if it's no good. I haven't slept properly in over a week and I am likely a zombie at this point.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me on this endless story!

Curled on the couch, a knock at the door startles Sherlock to awareness. He jerks into a sitting position, blinking into the darkened flat, with cramped, sore shoulders. Struggling to his feet, he makes his way down the stairs to answer the intrusion. When he opens the door and finds John, his breath hitches in his chest. He freezes, staring, heart thudding in his ears. John reaches for him and their hands interlock. The icy chill caught deep in the other man's skin sends shivers up Sherlock's arms.

John looks up, breathless as he whispers Sherlock's name, and collapses to the ground. Sherlock follows, falling to his knees and reaching for John. He cups John's face in his hands, wincing as the movement pushes against his bandaged palms. Tilting John's head up, he peers into his face, finding it sunken and delirious.

"John," He murmurs, smoothing a gentle thumb along John's sunken cheek. John blinks, staring past and through Sherlock, his eyes hazy and fogged over. "John?" The other man lifts his head, eyes sliding shut, and pushes his face into Sherlock's shoulder. Shivers wracking his frame, John slumps against him with a broken noise caught in his throat.

Sherlock enfolds John in his arms. Pulling him to his feet, he guides him up the stairs. John leans against him, a cold weight that shakes with raw emotion. As they enter the flat, John stares ahead with distant, confused eyes. They stand in the middle of the living room, and Sherlock looks around with helpless eyes. John shivers against him, damp clothes clinging to his frame.

"This way, John," Sherlock says, and his voice is soft. He leads John down the hall, into the bathroom. Sherlock leans into the tub to turn on the taps, settling the stopper in the drain. Steam coils through the room, fogging the mirror and soaking into his skin. He guides John to sit on the edge of the tub, kneeling in front of him. Setting his hands on the other man's shoulders, Sherlock searches his face. John looks back, eyes half-closed as he tilts his head with a confused look.

"Sherlock," he mumbles, slurring through numb lips. "I'm cold."

"I know," Sherlock rubs his hands over John's shoulders, trying to warm his shuddering body. He watches water fill the tub before looking back to John, who sits like an empty façade. Sighing, Sherlock hangs his head and stares at his hands. John shivers beside him, almost spasming with the force of his shaking. He stares forward, too still and nearly catatonic.

When the tub reaches a quarter full, Sherlock leans past John to shut off the taps. Steam rises from the hot water, and John quivers as it hangs around him, the haze matching his foggy eyes. Still kneeling in front of him, Sherlock looks on, feeling helpless. John continues to sit with a blank face, confused expression still in place. Rubbing a hand over his face, Sherlock sighs again.

"Okay, John." Looping a hand around the dazed man's waist, he pulls him to his feet. He hesitates, looking into John's face again. John stares back, eyelids heavy and half-closed. Sherlock bites his lip, uncertain, before moving to help remove John's wet clothes. John allows the assistance, raising his good arm as Sherlock slips the shirt over his head. He winces as the sleeve tugs at his broken arm and wrenched shoulder. Sherlock hangs the wet clothing from a towel rack before turning, eyes on John's face as he helped him into the tub.

John sits in the shallow water with his knees drawn up to his chest, shivering as the heat warms his freezing body. Crouching beside the tub, Sherlock leans against the edge. He takes in the thinness of John's chest and face. His sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Matted in unwashed clumps, John's hair hangs over his forehead.

This isn't how Sherlock imagined seeing John naked for the first time, but he adapts to the scenario. He keeps his eyes on John's face as the other man shivers and trembles in the hot water. There is nothing sexual about the moment and not something Sherlock would have ever expected. Nonetheless, he feels a flash of gratitude as he realizes that John has come here, to him, for help. John came home, knowing Sherlock would not turn him away—just as Lestrade had said he would. Sherlock sits and aches at the pain he sees etched into the dark shadows under John's eyes.

Sherlock picks up a bottle of shampoo from the edge of the tub and begins the slow task of wetting and lathering the product into John's hair. The soap and water soak into the gauze circling his palms with a sting, but Sherlock ignores the pain. John closes his eyes and leans against the edge of the tub, his shivering gentling in the warm water.

Finally warm, suds rinsed from his hair, Sherlock helps John out of the tub. He helps John towel dry and helps him slip on a borrowed pair of cotton pants. Skin tinged pink with the heat of the bath, John seems more cognizant. There's still a fogginess in his gaze, but he stands of his own accord, damp hair in mussed clumps from the toweling. Standing in the steamy bathroom, he looks uncomfortable, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes. Splinted arm held to his chest, his fingers fidget at the waistband of the borrowed pants. John clears his throat and stares at the wall behind Sherlock, licking his lips with nervous energy. Finally, his mouth moving soundlessly for a few seconds, his eyes shift to Sherlock's face.

"…thanks."

Sherlock nods, a slow inclination of his head, sharp gaze on John. John passes a shaking hand over his eyes and sags with exhaustion, face paling. Sherlock hesitates, caught between wanting to help and respecting John's boundaries. He fidgets, caught off guard when John extends his good arm, hand palm up and offered like an olive branch.

Their fingers link together, and Sherlock brings John close. He fits the shorter man under his chin, hands settling on John's back. His eyes slip shut, and Sherlock sucks in a loud breath, inhaling John deep into his lungs. He smells like Sherlock's shampoo and something unique to him, and exactly like home. Sherlock's breath stutters, and he nuzzles his nose against John's ear, heart pounding.

They stand in silence for a moment, warm and pressed together from chest to thigh.

"I'm sorry," John's voice mumbles against his chest, muffled in Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock goes still, arms stiffening. Finally, he tilts back, sliding his hands up to cup John's face between his palms.

"What are you apologizing for?" He asks, smoothing his thumb over John's chin. "What could you have to apologize for after all you've lost?"

John stares at him, right hand gripping the front of Sherlock's shirt. His fingers clench and release, a helpless expression on his face. "For blaming you." He whispers, broken and rough. "For pushing you away. For not...waiting." His hand fists tightly in Sherlock's shirt again, forehead pressed to Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock stares over John's head, struck dumb and silent by the unexpected words. As he stands there, blinking and bewildered, John lifts his head. He takes Sherlock's hand and leads him from the bathroom. Moving down the hall, they step into Sherlock's dark bedroom. Eyes shadowed in the dark, John releases Sherlock's hand and settles onto the bed. Arranging his injured arm across his chest, he looks to Sherlock, standing at the edge of the mattress.

Reaching for the detective's hand again, John pulls Sherlock down to him. Face blank, Sherlock allows himself to be pulled, stretching his long body out on the mattress. He settles his palm on the chest of the man beside him, watching it rise and fall with regular breathing.

_John._

The name whispers through his head as he looks down at the man beside him. Feels goosebumps ripple over his arms as John pillows his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock listens to their echoed breathing and the heavy thud of his heart inside his chest. He feels a light touch against the back of his hand and looks over. John curls his fingers through Sherlock's, their twined hands nestled between them. The silence stretches out, and Sherlock listens as John's breathing slows, and he slips into sleep.

Turning his head, Sherlock's eyes rove over John's face, hungrily noting details. Hand warm where their fingers lace together, Sherlock feels achingly whole. His own breathing slows to match that of the man curled into his side and realizes this is, in fact, what love feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #CuddlesAndSoapSuds


	38. Reclamation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John?" The name is a question, an uncertainty on Sherlock's plaintive face. John looks him in the eyes before he sucks in a breath and leans in again. This time, their fingers laced together, his kiss finds Sherlock's mouth, and his eyes slide shut.

John wakes to a room that feels both familiar and unfamiliar as his eyes open. Familiar, because he has seen this room before, in brief moments. Unfamiliar, because he has no previous experience to base this moment on. Sherlock pressing against his side is almost familiar, as John's brain flashes back to the hospital waiting room. Sherlock pressing against him in _Sherlock's bed_ is an entirely new experience.

Face pressed into John's neck, Sherlock's warm breath tickles over the sensitive skin. Quivering and tamping down the urge to look into that face, John holds himself still, trying not to wake Sherlock.

Sherlock's hand snakes over John's stomach, along bare skin, hooking long fingers around the curve of John's hip, and John turns his head. Dragging across the room from the window, pale morning light pools on Sherlock's face as their eyes meet. 

"Sherlock, I—" John's voice emerges rough, cracking at the end. He swallows and clears his throat. Sherlock watches him, silent, his pale eyes searching John's face. John can almost hear the gears grinding behind the scenes as Sherlock holds himself very still. His hand twitches and the detective starts to shift away, drawing his arm back.

John catches him by the wrist, holding him in place. Sherlock goes still again, watching him with a sharp, stoic face. His eyes are unreadable, but John notes the tiny lines of uncertainty at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. They watch one another, and John lets out a low sigh when Sherlock begins to twist his arm, trying to pull away again.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" He asks, and Sherlock pauses, eyes narrowing. 

"I'm giving you space," Sherlock replies but stops trying to pull away as John leans over and cups his face in his right hand.

"Did I say I wanted space?" He murmurs. Sherlock's breath, shaky and too quick, brushes over his face as he breathes out sharply. 

"John—" He begins, but John shakes his head. He shifts against the headboard, grimacing as the movement pushes into his shoulder.

"Shut up," John whispers, and Sherlock's face twitches. After only a brief hesitation, John leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead. He breathes Sherlock's scent as the other man falls deadly still. As John leans back, uncertainty passes across his face. Eyes shifting away, he feels panic well up, dropping his hand from Sherlock's face. "Ah, sorry—" John begins, apologizing with a heavy edge to his voice. Sherlock grabs his hand in a wild, uncoordinated movement, holding John still as he stares into his face.

"John?" The name is a question, an uncertainty on Sherlock's plaintive face. John looks him in the eyes before he sucks in a breath and leans in again. This time, their fingers laced together, his kiss finds Sherlock's mouth, and his eyes slide shut.

Sherlock softens against him, mouth falling open as John's tongue flicks along the curve of his bottom lip. They lose themselves in one another for an all-too-brief moment of bliss, until John breaks contact. Sherlock looks into his face, a small smile curving along his lips and lighting his eyes.

"John." This time, his name is spoken with something bordering on reverence. Sherlock locks his free hand on the curve of John's jaw, thumb stroking in smooth worship. "John."

"Yeah, I know." The words slip from his mouth, barely more than a breath.

A shadow passes over Sherlock's face, and he blinks in a rapid barrage of movement. "I'm sorry about Mary and Locklan." 

John sucks in a hard breath, one that feels like a punch in the stomach, and swallows down the urge to vomit. To implode and disappear. Tilting forward, he leans his forehead to Sherlock's.

"I know." He repeats, closing his eyes at the warmth of Sherlock's skin on his. As John presses their foreheads together, he feels an immense weight lift away. There is still a shadow over him, and the harsh bite of grief still tears deep inside his chest. It is unlikely to ever leave entirely, unlikely he can completely let go of the life he lost with Mary and Locklan. With early morning sunrise painting stripes across their faces, John knows he can move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. The end. 
> 
> I had planned to write a few more chapters and round out some ideas I had for the plot (and, who knows, maybe I'll post them as an alternative end one day, if I ever get around to writing them), but I decided to end it here instead for a few reasons:
> 
> 1\. This story ended up being MUCH longer than I meant it to, and the angst slog was becoming a struggle.
> 
> 2\. I am in the final year of my degree and a recent bout of insomnia has began to greatly curb my enthusiasm for writing. 
> 
> 3\. Feedback. So much weirdly niche, negative feedback on this story. A lot of positive feedback, too, which was super helpful, but I am an insecure little turd, so these comments got to me. A lot of specific comments where readers weren't happy that John was experiencing negative situations, and that I needed to then write Sherlock in the same scenes.
> 
> And while I will say I am 100% open and welcoming to actual critique about a story, these felt like weird attempts from people to make me write the story how they wanted, instead of understanding this is something I have planned out (more or less), and it makes little sense to write characters in the same scenes over and over merely because the reader wants the tables turned.
> 
> This story is called 'fall from grace' because it depicts both John and Sherlock falling from who they were to become who they are together. And since Sherlock already fell from grace largely with the storyline of the Reichenbach fall, John had a lot farther to fall.
> 
> Or maybe the whole story just sucked, idk.
> 
> Please know I adore and cherish everyone who takes the time to read anything I write (because why would I write otherwise!), but to be told over and over that my plot has failed their perceptions of who should be suffering more (apparently Sherlock? okay then) really ran me down in this story. I nearly did not finish it, but felt I should for those who have been reading it from the beginning.
> 
> Anyways, sorry for my whiny rant, and thanks to everyone who stuck it out with this pure slog of a story. Sorry if the ending is abrupt and incomplete, I am just done with it. I was considering a possible sequel one day (if I can devise a decent plot), but I may just leave this one behind and move on.
> 
> -Simplyclockwork (Paige)


	39. Epilogue - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting his jaw, Sherlock pauses at the ajar door to the bedroom. The room is dark and stagnant. The bed John once shared with Mary is a mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothing. Sherlock sucks in a hard breath, tasting a lingering tang of desperation on his tongue. The emotion permeates the very room, and he grinds his hands into hard fists at the thought of John in this space. John, falling to pieces beneath the weight of his pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS, I wrote an epilogue.
> 
> After receiving so much positive feedback and wonderful comments on the final chapter of this fic, I decided to write the two chapters I left out as an epilogue. This is the second to last chapter. After the next, this story will truly be finished (not including a possible sequel that I am still playing with ideas for).
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who read this story, I truly couldn't have finished it without your feedback and dedication to reading my never ending angst fest.

The day after their reconciliation brings cold morning air and a hopeful light to Sherlock's eyes. After extricating himself from John's relished embrace, Sherlock leaves him to rest. He hails a cab and travels to John's house in the countryside to fetch clothes and essentials while he stays at 221B, lost in thought.

The cab ride is too short for all the thinking Sherlock needs to do. The driver pulls to a long driveway, and Sherlock is struck by the gentle beauty of the home John tried to make for a family that no longer was.

Making his way up the drive to the front door, he finds himself heavy and somber. He hesitates before the door and pushes it open with a reluctant hand. John had neglected to lock the house behind him in his delirium, and Sherlock enters without the key.

The house is quiet, an oppressive, awful air hanging in the rooms. Sherlock can feel John's aching loss etched into the walls, spread across the ceiling and shuttered windows. Stepping over the pieces of a phone, thrown at the wall with desperate force, he opens the blinds over the living room window. Wan, pale light filters into the dark, dusty spaces.

Setting his jaw, Sherlock pauses at the ajar door to the bedroom. The room is dark and stagnant. The bed John once shared with Mary is a mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothing. Sherlock sucks in a hard breath, tasting a lingering tang of desperation on his tongue. The emotion permeates the very room, and he grinds his hands into hard fists at the thought of John in this space. John, falling to pieces beneath the weight of his pain.

Shaking his head, fighting the ache in his own chest, Sherlock steps through the bedroom door. He moves to the closet and begins stuffing clothes into a duffle bag found in the back. Moving to the dresser, pulling open drawers, a knock at the door makes him jump.

Frowning, duffle bag in hand, Sherlock moves through the house to the living room. Hesitating, he opens the front door and finds the intern from the hospital standing on the stoop. _Bennett_, his mind supplies, and his eyes narrow. The surprise is evident in the intern's face at finding Sherlock at the door instead of John.

"Yes?" Sherlock asks, voice leaving no uncertainty to his lack of pleasure at the sight of the intern.

"Uh, hello." Bennett coughs out, words shaky and unsure. "I' m—uh—" he coughs again. His feet shift, and Sherlock notes the bouquet clutched in one of the intern's hands. "Is—is Doctor Watson in?"

Sherlock leans against the doorway, placing the duffel bag against his hip as he looks the other man over. His eyes move from foot to forehead before his face settles into an unimpressed expression.

"No," he answers, pushing a note of harsh finality into the word. "John is not here."

"Oh," Bennett replies, eyes darting to Sherlock's face, then away, and back again. "Okay." He pauses, hesitant and clearly uncomfortable. "I—I just—" taking a deep breath that tilts him back on his feet, the young man launches into a babbled sentence that makes Sherlock raise his eyebrows. "I heard about the accident and his loss. I know he's on bereavement from work, and I just wanted to come by and say I'm sorry. Wanted to...make sure he's okay, you know? I picked up some flowers, so maybe you could give them to him?" Bennett sucks in another colossal breath, and his arm shoots out, holding the flowers in front of him like a shield.

Sherlock looks at the intern for a long moment before his mouth quirks and takes them in silence. Bennett offers a small, relieved smile in return.

"Thank you," he replies. "If you could tell Doctor Watson—"

"Sure," Sherlock says, abrupt, and closes the door in Bennett's face, cutting off whatever else he was going to say. He waits, listening until the sound of Bennett's feet on the driveway reaches his ear, and he smirks.

Dropping the flowers on the coffee table, Sherlock stalks back to the bedroom to finish packing. Returning, he pauses, narrows his eyes, and finally snatches the flowers up, staring at them. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock walks out the front door, pausing to lock it behind him. As he pulls out his phone to call a cab, he looks at the flowers again and scowls.

"I'm back," Sherlock announces his presence before stepping into the flat. Perched on the sofa, John sits up, wincing as the movement pulls at his arm. He aims a grateful smile up at Sherlock as the detective plunks the duffle bag onto the couch beside him. "I packed enough clothes for the week and made sure to bring your razor."

John peers into the bag before looking up at Sherlock again. "Thank you." He says, face relaxed and smooth. Unable to help himself, Sherlock bends to press his lips to John's in a soft kiss that brings goosebumps to his skin. John smiles against his mouth and hums, almost content. Straightening, Sherlock sees John's eyes move to the flowers, bemused.

"Did you buy flowers?" He asks, surprise in his voice. Sherlock sighs. Shaking his head, he hands them to John.

"I think your intern has a crush on you." Sherlock sounds droll and a little irritated. John looks at him with confusion and takes the bouquet. John picks at a small attached card with his fingers, turning it over to read the writing. His eyebrows rise, and he looks exasperated.

"Bennett?" He chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?" Looking up, he notes the jealousy in Sherlock's face and grins. Setting the flowers aside, John stands, moving into the detective. Resting his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder, he drops a light kiss to his neck. Sherlock's body melts, instant softening as John's arm slips around his waist.

Despite his possessiveness, Sherlock knows there is no contest for John's attention. He relaxes into the embrace with a contented sigh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #SherlockStillHatesBennett


	40. Epilogue - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits him at the hospital regularly. When he is not busy with a case or stuck in a stroppy pout, he joins John for lunch. They sit in John's office, the cafeteria, sometimes on a bench outside when the weather is nice. John lives for those times when they sit with hands intertwined, breezes dancing through Sherlock's wild hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it folks, that's the real, true, for sure ending.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! 
> 
> There's still a playlist up on my Spotify for this fic 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/rage_nation/playlist/4QN8w3PXJtbaX9lIUMar12?si=LnghhqxtRZuv77RmlgJubg
> 
> and the cover art is here
> 
> https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com/post/188371370755/oops-i-made-a-poorly-edited-image-for-the-cover

Arm no longer in a sling but still tender and awkward, John returns to work to the resounding welcome of his coworkers. They are supportive, even as they treat him as if he is made from spun glass. They speak in hushed tones and avoid mention of their family lives. He tries to reassure them that he is doing okay, as well as can be expected.

It has been two months since he and Sherlock spread Mary and Locklan's ashes in a field of waving heather and lilacs.

The first few weeks back, he limits himself to paperwork. Avoids participating in surgeries as he waits for full-motion to return to his hand and arm. Four months in, John returns to morning rounds. He leads eager interns around the hospital, lecturing and quizzing them on medical procedures and diagnoses.

Things begin to fall into place. Start to resemble a semblance of normalcy within his personal and professional lives. Six months in, John is back to minor surgery—mostly gall bladders and appendixes—but he feels at peace. There is still an ache in his life that ripples back from the fixed point of the car accident, but the edges of the wound are softer now. They begin to blur as the life he works to build with Sherlock salves the pain.

Sherlock visits him at the hospital regularly. When he is not busy with a case or stuck in a stroppy pout, he joins John for lunch. They sit in John's office, the cafeteria, sometimes on a bench outside when the weather is nice. John lives for those times when they sit with hands intertwined, breezes dancing through Sherlock's wild hair.

On one such day, he and Sherlock are seated in just that way. John talks around eating a sandwich, filling Sherlock in on a surgery planned that afternoon. Sherlock listens, sipping a hot coffee and watching John's face with reverent eyes.

When a footstep approaches, those eyes narrow and Sherlock whips his head around. John watches the peaceful look on the detective's face shift into a scowl and sighs, knowing who is on the receiving end. Sherlock only makes _that_ face at one person, and not even Anderson produced such a reaction.

"Hello Bennett," John greets the intern. He turns to find him standing a few feet away, clipboard clutched in his hands. Bennett's eyes shift from John's face to Sherlock's, and back. If looks could kill, John is sure Bennett would be a smoldering burn mark. John wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, squeezing gently. Sherlock twitches at the contact. His eyes dart to John, silvered by a depth of adoration John still finds himself surprised to receive from the detective, before zeroing in on Bennett again like a laser.

"Doctor Watson." Bennett returns. "And, ah, Mister Holmes." Sherlock who almost vibrates with the breath he hisses out in response. John rolls his eyes and squeezes Sherlock's arm again, this time in warning. Sherlock huffs, conceding with evident annoyance. Settling into the bench, he turns his back on Bennett. Looping an arm around John's waist, an obvious, possessive move, he stares straight ahead, sipping at his coffee with a tense jaw. John snorts. He jabs Sherlock in the ribs and focuses back on a very uncomfortable Bennett. John pastes a smile on his face that he hopes is welcoming.

"Are those Ms. Ruel's test results?" He asks, holding out his hand. Bennett blinks and hurries forward, moving around the bench to stand in front of them and offer the chart.

"Yes, Doctor Watson—everything looks good to me. We should be good to go ahead with her surgery." He hesitates as John looks over the results. "That is—I mean—if I can scrub in?" Sherlock's head snaps up, and he fixes a narrow-eyed stare on the younger man. Bennett swallows and looks at John, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

"Sure, Bennett," John says, nodding over the results before passing the chart back to the intern. Sherlock makes a low huffing noise. John sticks his finger in the detective's bony ribs again, urging him to keep his mouth shut. Sherlock looks at him, feigning woundedness, then pouts and drinks from his coffee cup.

Bennett smiles, looking grateful and flushed. His face pales when Sherlock growls low in his throat, looking at the ground.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Bennett replies, turning away with quick, jerky movements. John sighs, watching him go. Turning, he flicks Sherlock's neck.

"Ow!" Sherlock exclaims, hands flying up in defense. "Doctor Watson! Attacking an unarmed man—how dishonourable!"

John snorts and swats at Sherlock's raised hands. "You're a bloody terror, Sherlock Holmes." He is unable to keep the scowl on his face when Sherlock turns and sets about kissing it away with insistent lips. Laughing, John kisses him on the mouth, smiling at the detective's deep, throaty purr.

Finished lunch, Sherlock and John head into the hospital, towards the elevators. With Sherlock murmuring soft goodbyes, John is struck by the moment. Sherlock's hand is warm in his, and the detective stands close, his face gentle and more at peace than John has ever seen it. The closest he has to compare is the face Sherlock makes when playing the violin, but even that seems to pale in the way he stands now, relaxed and pleasant.

Their hands brush, fingers intertwining. John raises a hand to sweep a curl away from Sherlock's eyes. The detective sighs, smiling as he squeezes John's hand. With a ding, the elevator announces its descent from the fourth floor.

Sherlock stiffens, the unexpected movement breaking into John's thoughts.

"What—" he begins, but Sherlock's lips curl into a snarl, and, before John has a chance to look around, Sherlock attacks John's mouth with desperate avarice. Startled, John lets out a little noise of surprise when Sherlock nips his bottom lip. John growls and Sherlock responds by pressing him into the wall. Remembering that they are _at his place of work_, John breaks the kiss. With gentle hands on Sherlock's hips, he moves him back.

Sherlock pouts but still manages to look satisfied with himself. John knows his own embarrassed, but happy face reflects the expression. Looking over Sherlock's shoulder, John sees Bennett down the hallway. The intern is desperately pretending to be engrossed in looking at a painting of a bird on the wall. John rolls his eyes and nudges Sherlock with his shoulder.

"Git." He whispers, and Sherlock responds with a winning smile, not abashed in the slightest. He drops a quick kiss on the edge of John's lips and turns away.

"See you at home." The detective hums, smiling at the way John's eyes glint with the thought of what he may come home to. Sherlock smirks and tips a wink in response to the question on John's face, and John grins back. Pulling his long jacket about his shoulders, Sherlock stalks away down the hall. When he passes Bennett, the other man jolts in the dramatic sweep of Sherlock's path. John wonders if he hears a snarl between them—or rather, from Sherlock—and shakes his head. The elevator doors slide open, and he steps inside.

"Wait!" Bennett rushes forward and into the lift with a gasp. He nods at John, moving to stand as far away from him as possible. John notes the younger man's nervous energy and chuckles to himself. Bennett twitches at the sound. John just smiles and thinks of the many ways Sherlock might surprise him when he returns home to 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #HappyEndings


End file.
